


The Lady of the Rohirrim

by blueoncemoon



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Lord of the Rings, Canon-Typical Violence, Death take us all, F/M, Romance, Slow Build, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 107,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueoncemoon/pseuds/blueoncemoon
Summary: “Deeds that move the wheels of the world may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.” A retelling of the War of the Ring through the eyes of a newly emancipated prizefighter. Rescued by the Rohirrim and facing the brink of war, Truva seeks to find her place among the horse lords. Written as a preface to further post-canon adventures.Updates Friday 2300 UTC
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 34





	1. The Hidden Lands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's recommended listening: [Sibelius, Violin Concerto in D minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyfb_wZ3Bag&ab_channel=RocVela)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Mount Shuksan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRTVg8HHzUo&t=511s&ab_channel=NatureSoundscapes)

Clouds slunk over the mountaintops and clung to rocky foothills that formed the long, narrow valley. It cut from west to east, leaving as the only entrance an arduous trek from the lands that were once called Rhudaur, a path which traversed a high-walled canyon running between two towering peaks. Few animals could thrive in such harsh terrain or at such high altitudes; alpine choughs with glistening black wings flitted between the shadows of scraggly firs and pines as golden eagles hung high in the sky, searching for elusive hares below. Aside from the occasional wildflower peeking forth in spring, the trees’ emerald splash of color was all that offset the desolate gray palette of the mountainous region, which otherwise lay barren.

It was such remoteness, such bleakness that had led the first people of the Hidden Lands to settle there, for they had rightly believed that the isolation of the Valley would protect them from what lay beyond, and thus all knowledge of their existence passed, and for centuries they became no more than rumors or legend.

A casual glance might have easily misled an uninformed observer to assume there was nothing that distinguished the Hidden Lands from countless other villages that lay beyond the Valley. On the surface, the Hidlands – as the residents referred to it – were no different from the primitive hamlets of the Dunlendings to the southwest, or the seaside residences of the Gondorians upon the Bay of Belfalas. Throughout the Valley were scattered small clusters of dwellings, each with their own market and central area, in no way dissimilar from simple villages elsewhere.

In the village nearest the entrance of the Valley, the main market street bisected the dwellings with a mess of color and noise. Craftsmen called out their prices from beneath faded awnings of orange and yellow as blacksmiths clanged metal upon metal. Old women whose skills were the culmination of generations wove whatever materials were most readily accessible into whatever wares were in highest demand, and the few young men and women that lived about applied themselves to their chores with a resigned air, scowling in response to the incessant scolding of their elders.

Farmers loudly hawked their wares over the din of beasts bleating or flapping their wings against cages, for like any market there was a vast display of animals for sale, designed for a wide array of uses: pigs and various birds for eating, as well as cows for plowing what little farmland could be tilled, and for eating when they were no longer useful. Most cherished of all were goats and mules, used for transporting loads about the seemingly impassable mountains.

Tucked amongst all these goods, however, was another, surprising livestock: humans. Men, women, boys and girls, of all ages and sizes, every single one emaciated, with sinewy limbs and protruding ribs. Not many were available for purchase, yet these beings languished apathetically in their cages, for they knew their fate was sealed nevertheless. A nearly imperceptible flame burned in the eyes of some, though most wore the blank expression of resignation.

These were the slave fighters of the Hidlands. Many were born in captivity, while others had once been prisoners brought to the Valley by the rare trader – unscrupulous and in dire need of coin – who had heard rumor of the Lands’ existence. Some fighters had been passed from owner to owner with such frequency that their histories had long ago been lost in the minds of men who cared not.

Training was initiated from a young age; older slave fighters would often begin grappling with toddlers before they could even walk. It was typical for structured training to begin around the age of five or six, or even earlier if the slave showed promise. Upon their tenth birthday, or the day that was believed to be their tenth birthday, a slave’s debut fight was held. Due to a general lack of concern for their wellbeing, however, it was not unheard of for a first fight to occur as early as the eighth year, or even earlier if an owner was particularly greedy and feigned to misremember the birthdate of their slave.

Fights were unceasing in the Hidlands, and at least one was being held somewhere at every point in time, for the free villagers thrived on the thrill and escapism and gambling and alcoholism. A circuit of the first tiny village might reveal an early afternoon event at the Rope Ring behind the baker’s tent, or a fight just after midnight in the gully that lay beyond the edge of the village, or one right after breakfast in the Common Yards.

Every tenth day, however, the Grand Fights were held at the Coliseum just within the entrance of the village. It was on this day that premier fighters were brought from other villages, or led from the Fighters’ Quarters that sat on the southeastern side of the village, down along the main street until they arrived at the Coliseum: a massive amphitheater dug deep into the ground, with seating carved from the earth itself, surrounding a single raised ring. On the western side of the amphitheater rose a dilapidated wooden platform from which announcers would cry their commentary and feed the fervor of the crowds. It was at the grand Coliseum that fighters tested each other's prowess as their owners profited heavily from their struggle.

Should an owner desire to see their fighter succeed and compete at the Coliseum, thus earning them a larger wallet, it was not wise to treat their slave with excessive harshness. Beat a fighter too severely and they might not recover sufficiently before their next fight; starve a slave and they might lack the energy to win. Even so, the owners of fighting slaves had centuries of tradition to draw from, and this gradual accumulation of knowledge had revealed the perfect balance of misery and hope that maintained their fighters’ resignation without causing them to succumb to complete despair.

In order to avoid total defeatism, the Dream had been created: should a fighter win one thousand successive fights, they would earn their freedom, the right to walk away untouched, unrestrained. Legend had it that only two fighters had ever accomplished this feat in all the years since the Dream’s establishment, and the rules had subsequently been altered to ensure that no such success ever occurred again: no divisions by weight or gender, nor any maximum number of bouts within a specific time frame. Moreover, any fighter caught intentionally yielding to their opponent would face a month’s suspension upon the first violation, immediate execution upon the second.

Truva was a fighter who harbored a fire invisible even to herself, yet it burned nevertheless. In the night air, chill despite the hint of approaching spring, she sat with her back against her cage, legs splayed out before her. The enclosure was so small and her limbs so long that they protruded from the bars on the other side. She breathed slowly, wincing as each inhalation caused a twinge of pain in her ribs. It was just that morning she had sustained her injuries, yet she was certain her next fight was to be scheduled for the very next day.

Truva's owner was frantic, for the morning’s bout had resulted in her nine hundred, ninety-seventh consecutive victory. The enthusiasm for her fighting style that once was shared by only a few villagers had imperceptibly gathered momentum over the years until it reached a fever pitch, reverberating up to the very mountaintops. Even those scarce Hidlanders who had minimal interest in fighting felt the thrill, believing themselves to be witness to history.

Owners typically looked upon winning streaks as beneficial, for wins meant money; consecutive wins meant popularity in addition to more money, and popularity also ultimately resulted in even more money. History demonstrated that streaks were always broken, however, if even by a single fight, and that was what allowed the owners to maintain possession of their human property and source of income.

Yet for some inexplicable reason, no fighter that Truva’s owner had placed before her in the last nine hundred, ninety-seven fights had bested her, ergo he was panicking. Long ago, nigh on ten years, Truva’s potential had seemed unhopeful. Not only did she lose her debut fight, she also lost the next, and the next, then proceeded to lose the following twelve bouts, as well. For years, she won perhaps one fifth of all her fights – at a generous estimate – forcing her owner to consider the drastic action of selling or trading her.

Then came Truva’s first winning streak: sixty-two fights. For a fighter who had previously struggled to keep her arms up in defense for more than five minutes, winning sixty-two consecutive fights was an astounding accomplishment.

That streak was broken, as expected and intended. The next winning streak followed, however, and the next, and in time Truva’s owner was one of the richest in the village, and Truva one of its most popular fighters. Not even Blackbramble, the fighter named after the tallest peak in the Hidlands – due to the fact that he was nearly as large as it – could overpower her. Truva relied on her height and speed to utilize a counterattack fighting style, and upon her flexibility to extricate herself from grappling threats; few other fighters could boast of such a versatile skillset.

So it came to be that Truva languished in her cage, dreading her nine hundred and ninety-eighth fight which was certain to come anon; and come it did, just as she and the entire village had predicted, for the more rapidly her owner aligned her fights, the more likely Truva, in her exhausted state, would lose.

Truva’s cage was not located in the Fighters’ Quarters, where the majority of fighters lodged. She was held instead within the market, where the incessant noise and bustle prevented full rest. It was from this cage that Truva’s owner dragged her out into the main market and across the way to the Rope Ring. It was late morning, almost afternoon, the second busiest time for fights save early evening.

Fighters passionately despised combat in the Rope Ring any time the sun was up, for its rays blazed down so heatedly they became a third opponent. The square ring was raised half a body above the surrounding wood benches, and in the heat of day the hemp ropes that encircled the ring burned to the touch, almost as painfully as the black canvas that lined the base.

Ere Truva arrived at the Rope Ring, every single bench was groaning beneath the weight of an unprecedented number of occupants, and spectators were crammed into every corner of free space – all engrossed in enthusiastic chatter. There was no elevated slope upon which those who wished for a bird’s-eye view could stand, as there was at the Coliseum, forcing some of the smaller villagers to shove and jostle past those who were taller.

Truva’s opponent stalked back and forth just beyond the opposite corner of the ring, where for centuries the tread of fighters had beaten the earth hard. The fighter was unfamiliar to Truva, which was peculiar for such a small, enclosed community such as that of the Hidlands Valley. Perhaps this fighter had been brought from one of the furthest villages; rare, yet not inconceivable. Truva’s owner was undeniably desperate for any opponent with the potential to break her streak.

The fighter was tall and wiry, not unlike Truva herself, and her hair was likewise braided in tight rows along her scalp to deprive opponents of any opportunity to grab it. Both combatants wore a uniform of gray cotton tunic and leggings: that of all fighters.

As Truva wove between the benches, her opponent climbed up through the ropes. No showboating, no crowd-pleasing, just bloody business. Truva evaded her owner and slipped into the ring as well. She liked this opponent already, for their style was unmistakably similar.

Both fighters lifted their arms high above their heads, hands open and palms forward to demonstrate they carried no weapons. Each walked to the center of the ring to touch raised hands and indicate acceptance of combat – as though they had a choice – then retreated to their separate corners. The Ringmaster struck a bell to begin the fight.

Save a ban upon weapons, there were no rules. Any method by which victory could be achieved was permissible, given the techniques were combative and did not result in the death of an opponent. There was no time limit, and none save the Ringmaster were allowed to interfere.

Both fighters emerged immediately from their corners upon the ring of the bell, though neither was eager to engage. Truva had everything to lose in this fight, while her opponent had everything to gain; this called for caution. Each threw a few halfhearted strikes to gauge distance yet hung back, waiting for the other to attack.

Truva knew this situation would not benefit her, as she was already so exhausted from her previous fights that the more time passed, the more significant her disadvantage became. Despite being a counter fighter, she decided to engage first. She feinted twice, struck her opponent’s midsection with a kick, then ducked down to bring her opponent to the ground, where she hoped to grasp a submission without sustaining any significant damage.

Her opponent blocked her takedown with scarcely any effort. The fighter’s defensive skills were not to be underestimated, Truva thought grimly to herself; and though she had never fallen under any illusion that it might be, it was more than apparent that this would not be an easy fight.

Truva worked from beyond her opponent’s range, striking quickly then darting back. It was an exhausting style, yet Truva hoped desperately that her opponent would fall into the trap she was setting. Truva let a combination fly before her opponent proceeded to do precisely as she had planned: rushing forward, right into Truva’s anticipant takedown.

Though caught off guard, Truva’s opponent would not give in so easily. Each of Truva’s successive attempts to solidify her advantage was met with a counter. Truva and the fighter became locked in a cycle of movements, one technique transitioning to another in a whirl of prediction and reaction, each struggling to obtain control. At last the fighter broke free, returning to standing combat.

Truva hardly had time to register her exhaustion upon failing once again to bring the fight to the ground before her opponent attacked, throwing a straight right punch and attempting a kick then— slipping! Truva took immediate advantage of the downed fighter’s mistake, smothering her upon the canvas and clamping her arm in an inescapable hold.

When her opponent signaled submission, Truva arose to a thunderous roar of approval and disbelief. Nine hundred and ninety-eight consecutive wins! Many spectators struggled to comprehend the proceedings, despite having observed it all with their own eyes. Truva’s owner begrudgingly collected the victory money, in addition to the money of bettors who were surprisingly enthusiastic to have lost. What was a little money in the face of the greatest events they were likely ever to witness in their otherwise mundane lives?

Truva was led back to her cage, still panting. Passing free villagers congratulated her owner and he thanked them unenthusiastically, for his prize fighter – and main source of income – was one fight closer to no longer bringing him any income at all, and he was in no disposition to be pleasant.

When they arrived at her cage, Truva’s owner snatched her throat with one hand and brought her face to within millimeters of his own. His scowl caused deep wrinkles to furrow in the rough skin of his face, dark from lounging about in the harsh alpine sun, and the curl of his lip revealed teeth deformed by malnutrition and excessive drinking.

“Listen to me, you pathetic shell of a mongrel!” growled Dregant, for that was the reprobate’s name. “Your luck will not extend any further. I will search to the ends of the earth for an opponent that will destroy you if I have to! I will never allow you to be free and give heart to other fighters. I would rather you dead than free!”

Dregant was a strong man, yet Truva was stronger. She could easily reach out and snap his head around, bringing an end to the foul stench he breathed into her face, and to the even fouler poison he breathed into her soul. But to what end? An escaped slave never got far. Despite their unceasing antagonism, the free villagers protected one another in such matters, and an injustice done unto one was done unto all.

“Are you listening? Your victories are meaningless and insignificant; you are nothing more than a miserable slave,” he spat. “I will see to it that you lose, crushing both you and any last vestiges of hope you harbor in your heart.”

At this, Dregant struck her across the face and threw her from him so violently that her body fell against the far side of the cage. With an ease due to years of practice, he slammed the bolt across the entrance and locked it in one swift motion. He stalked off as Truva slid down the bars into a seated position upon the ground once more. Such physical brutality no longer distressed her; it was instead the certain truth that lay behind his words that gave her pause. Dregant was not the sort of man to leave the manifestation of his desires to the whim of fate.

She did not believe Dregant would take her death into his own hands, however, for his boldness lay only in words and not actions, and while it was not inconceivable for a slave to be killed at the hands of their master, Truva did not believe the Hidlanders would take kindly to Dregant depriving them of their fun – he risked being ostracized should he succumb to his basest nature. Nor could he destroy her if she secured her thousandth victory, for as anarchic as the Hidlands were, the murder of a free villager was never overlooked. Still, Truva feared what mischief Dregant could yet conceive in the meantime.

It was such gloomy thoughts Truva was entertaining when a disturbance cut through the racket of the market, as half a dozen men exerted all their might in dragging another figure along the main street. When they approached closer, Truva could see that the figure was her opponent, body soaked in blood, having been severely beaten for her loss.

The men opened a cage adjacent to that which Truva occupied, one that had stood empty for as long as she could remember. Despite the beleaguered state of the fighter, it took the strength of every single man to contain her within the cage, and still she clung to the jambs as they slammed the gate shut upon her fingers. The crunch of shattered bone was audible, and the fighter screamed in pain and rage. Even as the men left, she continued to hurl herself at the gate, clanging it loudly against the frame. Such actions were pointless, however, for the cage itself had bores that struck deep into the ground and chains that tethered it upright; the craftsmanship of fighters’ cages was the pride of the Hidland blacksmiths.

A small crowd gathered to watch as the fighter continued like this for some time, using everything at her disposal to convey her fury to the world. Her voice became as raw as her mangled body before she finally collapsed onto the ground and wept. Truva said nothing, for there was nothing that could be said.

The day continued around those confined. Goods were purchased and sold and villagers came and went beneath the colorful tents of red and gold and green. They were unconcerned as ever with the plight of the pitiful fighters, save those that occasionally gawked at the one who was two bouts away from potentially ensuring her freedom, or the one rumors said came from a distant village.

Even still, day transformed into night with imperceptible changes. As the middle-aged woman selling corn and chickens next to the cages began to pack up her tent, Truva gazed upon the young woman who lay miserably in the cage beside hers. In the dim light of sunset, Truva could see the bruises blossoming purple on her skin, and the blood that had already dried on her clothes, and the faded look in her eyes.

“Why did you let me win?” Truva asked bluntly, abruptly cutting through the silence. Her opponent did not respond for some time as her eyes turned languidly toward Truva.

“You are famous, even in my own village,” she replied after a pause, her voice hoarse, scarcely more than a whisper. “I live— I lived in a tiny hamlet at the far eastern corner of the Valley. All the communities out that far are incredibly insular; even still, we heard tell of you.”

“And so?”

The fighter did not answer immediately. She studied Truva for a moment, pulling herself up into a slumped position against the cage bars before she spoke again. “I was stolen. Like you, I was a prizefighter for my village, but I was free. I earned my own money, chose my own fights, lived my own life. They came in the middle of the night and took me.”

It was Truva’s turn to be silent. Buying and selling slaves was common – stealing free humans was unheard of.

“I am sorry,” was the only response she could offer.

“And it was my belief, if I was to be a slave anyway, if I was to have mine so brutally stripped from me, that I might at least assist another on their path to freedom.” She took several deep breaths before continuing, “So you must win. You must fight for the rest of us, for those left behind, for those abused and exploited, to show that we will not be broken!”

“I have no intention of losing!” Truva replied fiercely. “I would rather face death with fire in my soul than be beaten down and forced to live a life not my own.”

“And that is why I let you win,” said the fighter, and collapsed in exhaustion, unresponsive.

Several days passed and still Truva did not know the name of her opponent, yet it seemed immaterial. The fighters led fleeting, insubstantial lives; any sense of self they might have possessed was ground down by the lightness of existence itself; thus even names, that marker of individuality, floated up beyond the mountaintops that surrounded the Hidlands like a different kind of bars.

Whatever her name was, the fighter had been dragged off multiple times, sometimes twice in one day, to guarantee the victory of other fighters. Each time she was returned even more battered than when she was taken away. Perhaps it was because Truva supposed she would never have to fight this particular opponent again, or perhaps it was because she knew the fighter’s freedom had been so ruthlessly stripped away, but an incredible sense of sympathy for this new arrival swelled within Truva.

As Truva herself was led away upon the sudden arising of her penultimate bout, the fighter even managed to rasp out an enthusiastic “Good luck!” despite her battered state, and waited anxiously for Truva’s return.

It was a long wait. When Truva finally did return, it was in the arms of three men who dumped her unceremoniously back into her cage. Truva appeared unconscious, lying with her back to her onetime opponent.

“—Well?” her cage neighbor asked with baited breath, for though Truva’s condition clearly indicated defeat, the fighter wished to remain in denial until the end. Truva did not respond verbally, merely raised her hand slowly to gesture a positive sign of victory. Her neighbor shrieked in delight and danced around her cage, temporarily oblivious to her injuries, only to collapse and join Truva in lying upon the ground.

Dregant had kept his promise. It was a brutal fight, one of the most brutal Truva had ever faced in all the time since her debut. She had absorbed the entire beating, enduring just until she could catch a flying left hook and send her opponent unresponsive to the canvas. Her body was in ruin, however, and she feared Dregant would take this last opportunity to ensure her defeat by scheduling a fight immediately, perhaps even that very same day.

That was precisely what Dregant had intended to do, yet the villagers would not have it. Such a historic fight be so inequitable? No, that would not do. Every single owner refused to match their fighters with Truva, therefore Dregant had no other alternative than to provide Truva sufficient time to fully recover and train for her thousandth fight.

It was atypical for active fighters to train, as participating in bouts every three days or so left minimal time or need for training. It was thus the youth who populated the Training Compound: fighters who had not yet debuted, or whose technique still required refinement. His belief that constraining Truva to a tiny cage would facilitate breaking her winning streak meant Dregant had long ago prevented Truva from visiting the Compound, yet as she approached what could potentially be her final fight, the entire Valley of the Hidlands demanded that Truva be in peak condition. While she still spent nights in the market cage, it was with reluctance that Dregant allowed her to return to the Compound to train with the other skilled fighters who remained there as instructors.

Months passed ere opponent and date were agreed upon, yet the day came nevertheless. It was the first day of spring, counterintuitively inauspicious in Hidland culture. The temperature had been exceptionally low all week, and a fog had settled in, yet on that day the chill was broken by unseasonably strong sunlight that cut through the gloom.

The market had been declared closed that day, for not a single villager wished to miss the momentous occasion. It was intriguing to note that owners chafed at the idea of their own possessions gaining freedom, yet inwardly encouraged the emancipation of others’.

Spectators streamed toward the village entrance beneath the morning sun. It was not the tenth day of the cycle, thus not a day when fights would ordinarily be held at the Coliseum, yet there was no other venue that might accommodate all those who wished to observe, nor indeed any other venue that would match the grandness of the occasion.

A diverse array of Hidlanders took their seats upon the earthen stands about the sunken ring. They chatted noisily with their neighbors as they unpacked food they had prepared and hailed the ale master – the sole guaranteed beneficiary, regardless of the events that transpired.

There was to be a series of six fights before Truva’s in order to entice the crowd and build suspense, as well as sell more ale. Though fighters were typically not released from their cages until the last possible moment, several villagers had pressured Dregant into allowing Truva to prepare in advance for a fight that would surely be told in stories for generations. Truva was therefore released early, though such a disturbance to her routine was in truth more of a hindrance than an advantage. She hung back from the crowds, out of sight behind a screen erected for waiting fighters as she loosened her body and mind.

All the Hidlanders being preoccupied with the fights, it was with ease that a small number of outsiders slipped into the village, having hitched their horses to an outpost just beyond the foremost huts. The new arrivals observed the Coliseum as they slunk past, intrigued by the hubbub that emanated from that area. Their destination, however, lay past the spectacle.

The outsiders moved cautiously along the deserted market street, turning down an alleyway into a cluster of huts before entering one. They emerged but a few moments later and returned to the market, then proceeded a short distance further and repeated the same process several times. At one point, they paused a great while in front of one particular residence, emerging at great last with a straw satchel they had not entered with. Once in possession of this new treasure, they turned back along the market street and crept westward toward the village entrance. They ultimately submitted to their curiosity, however, and approached the Coliseum so that they might observe the events that transpired there.

As the preliminary fights progressed, tension gripped Truva. A decade of fighting could not dispel the entrenched sense of anxiety that tormented her before every bout. No stretching of limbs, no series of exercises, no amount of fighting shadows helped abate the unshakable feeling of inevitable failure.

She was so preoccupied with her nerves that it was not until an unnatural hush fell that she turned to see the previous fighters clearing the ring and her opponent entering it. He was a tall, stocky man, sure to have been a highly decorated soldier in any other society. His golden hair was cropped short and his muscles flexed restlessly beneath his uniform; Harrodoc was his name, and Truva had fought him many times before. She usually lost.

“Truva!” Harrodoc cried, his voice unnecessarily loud over the quietude. Truva rolled her eyes, for she had forgotten how much he relished reciting a monologue. “Well we all know of your fame! Gathered here are those who wish to witness this unparalleled moment in history – when I shall strike you down in the very moment of your anticipated victory. Come out now!”

Ever contrary, Truva did not wish to emerge – regardless of how quickly she desired the fight to start, she balked at the idea of being ordered about by this pontificator – yet her eagerness for a conclusion ultimately won out, and she stepped forth from behind the screen.

“Let all present view her at the height of her glory; a most worthy opponent, yet one I shall certainly crush!” Harrodoc boasted. Truva longed to take her time in walking to the ring, longed to witness every flickering image, to breathe in the smell of roasted potatoes from the couple she had just passed, to feel the pleasantly warm sunlight shining on her glistening, sweaty skin, and appreciate the overpowering significance of the moment; yet she also loathed the idea of listening to Harrodoc speak. She raced instead through the break in the benches as free villagers reached out to brush their fingertips against their unlikely idol.

Harrodoc wisely ceased to speak the instant Truva entered the ring. It was an immense, circular construction of posts hung with netting woven of thin but strong rope. There were no corners, so Truva took the side opposite her opponent as she had done in two hundred and twenty-one other fights at the Coliseum. Harrodoc grinned maniacally, for he understood that his victory would result in the grandest profit of his owner’s life, which in turn indicated food and rest for him. He was not afraid to sabotage the lifelong dream of others in order to attain his own temporary gratification.

The hush of the crowd built slowly to a deafening roar, the likes of which Truva had never heard in the Valley before. This was the defining moment of the Hidlanders, even more than it was her own; it was the event that would keep them engaged before the fire on long, freezing winter nights, generations into the future. Yet for Truva, it was nothing more than a fleeting moment.

The bell rang. Harrodoc closed the distance between them at incredible speed. Intending to drive him back and maintain the distance between them, Truva threw a rapid front kick toward his jawline. It landed perfectly.

Harrodoc was down instantly, unconscious.

The spectators’ roar cut off in an instant as shock reigned. Could it really happen like that? Could history happen so quickly? Was it real?

Suddenly, everybody leaped into action. Those who had lost bets staged their own fights with those they had lost their bets to. Drunkards staged fights with anyone within reach. Women and men who had secretly been cheering for something unexpected to happen simply cried aloud at the joy of being alive in such times. Other village members held Truva’s owner back as he struggled to make his way toward the ring, knife in hand.

Truva started; seeing the apoplectic look upon Dregant’s face, she wondered whether she had not misjudged him, and he might be capable of taking her life after all, regardless of the consequences. She considered her circumstances: she had neither belongings nor money with which to establish a life in the Hidlands or elsewhere. Legend had it that the first fighter to win his freedom died of dehydration just beyond the entrance of the Valley and that, upon hearing the stories of the first fighter, the second fighter to achieve the Dream decided to stay in the Hidlands and build his own fighting empire.

Truva could not and would not enact such inhumane evils upon her fellow beings as the second fighter had. She had therefore determined long ago to flee the first instant she was able, even if it meant her death. As soon as Harrodoc hit the black canvas and Truva witnessed the chaos about her, she stalked out of the ring and up through the seating, pushing villagers from her as she made her way out of the Coliseum and toward the village entrance.

It was there she encountered the group of outsiders, colliding face-first with the foremost one, though the particular Man who had the misfortune of being in her path was so tall and stout that she scarcely caused him to budge. At her eye level was his chest, where a horse was emblazoned upon the leather of his armor. When Truva cast her eyes about, she saw that each of the outsiders was clad similarly, and though she had long considered herself tall, every one of them towered above her, peering down from light blue or green eyes set beneath long locks of untamed golden hair. Truva knew that no clan with such a crest or such fair people resided anywhere near the Hidlands; they were entirely unfamiliar to her.

“Who are you?” she demanded of the Man she had run into.

“We are Eorlingas,” responded the Man, similarly observing her peculiar appearance. Truva did not know what his words meant, though she had no intention of displaying her ignorance as she squirmed under his curious gaze.

“What are you doing here?” she pressed.

“We are on a mission.”

“A mission? What kind of mission?”

“That I cannot tell you.” Truva bristled slightly at the man’s brusque response, yet her situation was desperate. She was in no position to spurn these strangers.

“By what means did you come here?”

“On horse,” the man gestured to their herd as he answered.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the Riddermark.” The man may as well have been speaking a foreign tongue for all Truva understood, but in her mind all that mattered was their destination lay elsewhere.

“Take me with you.”

“Beg pardon.”

“Take me with you,” Truva repeated. The man observed her quizzically for a few moments ere another outsider approached and drew the first away for a hushed discussion. They were not so far away that Truva could not hear, yet it did her no good, for their speech was strange and foreign. It nevertheless sounded rich and vibrant, at times as though she might understand if only she focused a little more intently.

“She is not one of us, my lord,” said the second man, suddenly reverting to the Common Tongue.

“Without us she is dead,” replied the first, who appeared to be the leader.

“If she were for any reason to cause us to fail our mission— And we haven’t a spare horse.”

Truva saw that it was in her best interest to interrupt their discussion then. “You may bind me, so that I do not cause trouble. I can run – and should I fall too far behind, you may leave me altogether. All I ask is some water and a chance to leave this place.”

The leader glanced at his second man significantly, though the response was a mere shrug.

“We will not bind you, though there is no man among us light enough to share his horse; you shall have to keep up on foot. Our water reserves lie with our horses. Come now and we will give you some, ere we move out.”

The group of eight men strode off as a unit, and Truva scarcely had enough time to register shock before her limbs moved of their own accord, following after the group. When they reached a cluster of horses just beyond the entrance of the village, the lead Man offered her a skin of water.

“Do not drink overly much. Your body is parched and will not be able to take it all. I will allow you to drink as often as you like, do not fear.” Without any further word, even as Truva returned the water to its owner, the riders mounted their horses and turned from the village, peeling out toward the entrance of the Valley.

True to his word, the leader allowed Truva to drink as often as she asked, and even proffered some sort of biscuit to fill her complaining stomach. She strove to limit how often she asked for water, and savored the biscuit for as long as possible, however, for though she did not know where they had come from nor how far their destination lay, Truva could deduce they had not anticipated an additional companion.

It was a rocky, treacherous path that led away from the first village, and Truva initially made better progress than the horses. When the trail bottomed out toward the canyon at the entrance of the Valley, however, the way grew less precarious. The easier the path became for the horses, the more strenuous it became for Truva, and though she was a fighter and in good physical shape, the culture of the Hidlands did not allow for distance running. Most fighters only ever jogged small laps about their own separate Compound, for each village had one, or ran short-distance sprints – anything further and their owners grew concerned about their slaves running away.

Truva was driven by something even more powerful than escaping, however. She was running toward her freedom, toward her future, toward uncertainty, and she knew that no other similar opportunity would ever arise again. Without the strange horsemen, whose appearance had been unlooked for, she would have been doomed. It was this thought, lodged deep in her mind and heart, that drove Truva to keep pace with the horses, however arduous a task it might be.

Riding at the head, the second Man observed her struggles from the corner of his eye and slowed the pace of the horsemen imperceptibly. He dropped back to the leader.

“If this is the pace we maintain, we might not make it out of the valley by nightfall,” he said in hushed tones that barely carried over the sound of the horses’ hooves.

“We shall reach it a little later than anticipated, yet we will reach it nevertheless,” said the leader.

“If you say so, my lord,” said the second rider, then retook the lead.

Truva could not hear the exact exchange, though mere observance of the riders’ body language allowed her to perceive what had been said. Keeping the second horseman within sight, she exerted herself to draw even with the leader.

“If necessary, you can forge on ahead and make camp where you originally intended. I am sure you desire to be beyond the reach of the Hidden Lands before nightfall, and I do not wish to impede your progress.”

“Thank you for your concern, but that is not necessary,” said the leader. “We are making decent time and shall be secure wherever we rest tonight.”

Truva fell back slightly, both unwilling and unable to make further conversation. Not only was she at a loss for words, her breath caught in her lungs and throat upon every inhalation, and her mouth felt full of cotton. She was certain her legs would collapse against her will with each step she took.

Truva was just beginning to lag behind the group when the lead rider issued a low whistle and all members reigned in their horses, guiding them to a low tree so slight it was practically a bush. They dismounted and pulled water and food from their panniers, taking a seat beneath the paltry shade of the tree.

It was a few hours after midday, and though the spring air might have felt pleasantly warm to one who was just emerging after having spent all winter tucked away inside, the sun bore down unbearably hot upon Truva. All her body longed to do was collapse on the ground, yet her spirit knew she would never arise again should she do so. Truva therefore refused to sit, choosing instead to shake out her legs and stretch. With gratitude she accepted additional water and a mouthful of biscuit from a rider she had not yet spoken with, though that was all.

The riders’ rest concluded much sooner than Truva would have liked. Her feet, accustomed to being bare since birth, protested at being beat against such rough terrain, and her legs threatened to buckle as her calves and thighs seared in pain. It was through no more than pure strength of will that Truva was able to force one foot in front of the other as the riders mounted up and departed again.

They continued on until dusk, at which point they had reached the steep canyon that formed the exit of the Valley. Here they slowed to a walk, though Truva could not comprehend why.

“Stay vigilant,” came the soft warning from the leader. Truva was too physically overwhelmed to so much as keep her head up, let alone look around, yet their caution was unwarranted. The riders and their peculiar companion passed through the bottleneck unchallenged, and continued to travel on into the pathless hinterland that lay beyond the Valley.

Despite her exhaustion, a thrill ran through Truva. As a slave, she had never passed beyond the borders of the Hidlands. Even free villagers rarely came so far, instead relying on the rare trader to bring them what little they could not provide themselves. Each passing moment brought new sights that Truva had only ever dreamed of seeing. Beyond the insular Valley, the dying glow of dusk revealed that the Hidlands were but a tiny link in a staggering chain of mountains that ran as far as the eye could see southward, Blackbramble Peak nothing more than a single diminished spire amongst a vast range of summits.

Another arm of the mountains extended northwestward, at the foot of which ran a river, impressive in Truva’s eyes even from a distance, for she had never witnessed anything greater than tiny trickles of snowmelt. The waters of the river ran west for quite some distance before they hooked southward, enclosing vast, open plains that featured only dry, golden green scrub far into the distance. Her vision having always been obscured by the mountains surrounding the Hidlands, Truva struggled to comprehend the vastness of the new land that lay before her.

Night had fully descended by the time the riders made camp in a copse of windswept pine trees. Through drooping eyes, Truva observed as they organized watch, then determined a foraging pair as well as a cooking pair. Though she felt somewhat guilty, Truva was extremely grateful that the riders did not seem to expect anything of her, for she did not believe herself physically capable of any further movement. She collapsed beside the leader as he built a campfire and ignited it, then set water to boil.

Noticing her watching, the leader asked, “What is your name?” but Truva was already fading off to sleep, unable to answer when he asked if she did not wish to eat supper.

“Let her sleep,” said the second rider, approaching from a foraging mission with a handful of mushrooms and some greens. “She can eat tomorrow morning; it is better she rest now.”

“You are right, Éofa,” said the leader, and Truva was awake no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter of _The Lady of the Rohirrim_!
> 
> As unrefined as the title may be, it was born of my obstinate desire to retain the "LotR" acronym, and for that I implore that you grant me some forbearance.
> 
> This work has already been completed, and currently stands at 27 chapters – approximately 170k words. I will be uploading each chapter every Friday at 2300 UTC. It is designed to set the stage for a post-canon story that examines the dealings of the Blue Wizards in the east of Middle-Earth.
> 
> Dedicated to my Sam, without whom I would have gotten as far as Frodo without his Sam – that is to say, not very far indeed.  
> From catching minor grammar mistakes to allaying prodigious self-doubt, my “neuroticism and OCD” driven beta: Samantha Marie Friar ♡
> 
> This is my first significant work of fiction; any and all corrections, information, concrit, or general greetings are therefore warmly welcomed! If you find joy in the evisceration of others' dreams, do not hesitate to lambast me mercilessly in the comments.
> 
> I thank you once again for reading this far, and if you have enjoyed what you have read, "Forth now, and fear no darkness!"


	2. First Days of Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's recommended listening: [Dvořák, Symphony No. 9 in E minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLWpgWuUaU4&t=123s&ab_channel=Pentameron)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Riverside Campfire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ftm2uv7-Ybw&t=296s&ab_channel=TheSilentWatcher)

The next morning, Truva was roused by a rough prodding. She was certain it had been but a few moments since she had fallen asleep, yet dawn tinged purple the mountains in the east. Truva lifted her head, though her body screamed in revolt when it struggled to follow. Every single fibre of muscle in her lower body was aflame with excruciating pain.

Her prodder, the Riders’ leader, wordlessly handed her a whole biscuit and a waterskin, then went off to attend to his duties. Truva longed to enjoy her first breakfast of freedom as slowly as possible, though the fear of being caught preoccupied when they broke camp was much stronger. She consumed the biscuit with alacrity and was licking the last few crumbs off her fingers when the leader returned.

“Have you ever ridden a horse?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” said Truva, not wishing to reveal that it was only on the very rare occasion she had so much as seen a horse, let alone touched one. Slaves riding horses? It was laughable! And yet she was startled when the leader did indeed let out a brazen, sonorous laugh.

“Why do you laugh?” Truva asked, entirely confused and rather hurt.

“Why do you call me ‘my lord?’” he replied.

“That is what the other rider called you, is it not?”

“That is correct,” said the leader with a smile, then offered his hand to help her to her feet, though Truva knew the outstretched hand of another not to be a sign of help, but a threat rather. She struggled to her feet on her own, and though the leader looked on in bewilderment, he then led her to the tree where the mount he himself had ridden yesterday was already saddled, and gave the creature a fond slap. “Let us see if we cannot get you on this boy.”

“I can run on my own feet; I do not wish to be a burden,” Truva said, eyeing the horse with apprehension. Though it was true she did not wish to cause undue difficulty to these Men, the more pressing issue on her mind was that, while horses did not outright scare her, they certainly made her uneasy.

“Yesterday must have been terribly trying for you; therefore, you shall ride today, and I will run. In riding, you will learn that your body can hurt in wholly unfamiliar ways,” the leader chuckled. “We shall alternate in this way from here on out, for it will speed our progress.”

“I have never ridden a horse before,” was the only excuse Truva could conjure.

“As you said,” laughed the leader, though gentler than before. He guided her to the horse’s head, and allowed the creature to sniff and tickle her hand with his whiskers before leading Truva toward the saddle. “This is Firefoot, my steadfast _Mearas_ ; he will bear you loyally. Put your foot in the stirrup, right there, yes. I will lift you on the count of three; simply swing your back leg to the other side.”

Truva’s entire body tensed when the leader made as if to lift her, yet his earlier offered hand had clearly been a friendly overture, and in truth Truva was in desperate need of assistance; for there was not sufficient strength in her legs to mount without his aid, and she would have certainly slid back off had he not braced her. Once perched in the saddle, Truva clung with all her might, knees clamped trembling against the beast’s sides. Firefoot shifted beneath her, causing her weight to sway this way and that, and Truva felt certain she would fall at any moment.

“Now take hold of the reins,” said the leader, easing her white-knuckled hands from their deathly grip on the pommel and placing in them the leather straps. “Do not pull too tight – allow him to lead. Firefoot is a gentleman of good manner, and will serve you well. Simply remain in the midst of the company and he shan’t lead you astray.”

The other Riders looked dubiously upon the scene that played out before them as they packed their things into saddlebags and mounted up.

“Are you sure you wish to do this, my lord?” the second Rider said to the leader quietly.

Rather than respond, the leader instead turned to Truva and said, “This is Éofa, my cousin.”

“I wish the conditions of our meeting were fairer,” said Truva.

“As do I,” said Éofa, then paused before adding, “Yet we still do not know your name.”

“I am Truva.” Silence and anticipation hung over the listening Riders, as though they were waiting for her to say more.

“Have you— have you no other names?” Éofa asked.

“Have I need of any other names?” Truva asked. “I know no father or mother, nor have I any rank or respectable trade, and I hail from a place I do not acknowledge as my own; I do not know of any other names by which I might refer to myself. Ergo, I ask again: have I need of any other names?”

“I suppose there is no need,” Éofa admitted.

“Let us ride out,” the leader called to the group, effectively ending the unsettling conversation, and the riders took to the road one by one.

“What of you, my lord?” Truva asked the leader as he jogged along beside, seemingly unperturbed by any aspect of the situation. “What is your name?”

“You may call me ‘my lord,’ for it pleases me,” he said with a smile.

The entire day passed in much the same way as the afternoon prior. It eased Truva’s guilt to see the leader unbothered by the exertion of running, for she was quite convinced that she would not have been able to endure another day on foot. Nor was riding a far improvement at first – for not being firmly on ground made Truva uneasy – yet true to the leader’s words, the horse Firefoot proved dependable. Over the course of the day, Truva even began to enjoy the activity somewhat, despite unfamiliar muscles in her body growing fatigued and sore.

When they made camp as the dusk of early evening descended, the Riders again repeated the same pattern as the previous night. Truva was accustomed to living by a rhythm back in the Hidlands, consisting of nothing more than fighting and resting; but this new life brought its own rhythm, one that was equally exhausting yet significantly more thrilling. She now had a destination, a goal beyond one thousand fights, an end that she could not fathom yet had chosen herself. For such a conclusion, she could bear anything.

Truva knew nothing of keeping watch or foraging or cooking. As a fighter, she had been fed scraps and expected to eat them, for fighting slaves were not trusted with food preparation. Nevertheless, she was determined to be useful. The leader raised his eyebrows in surprise when she offered to help, though he merely said, “If you are not too exhausted, assist Éofa with dinner preparation.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Truva, and walked to the fire over which Éofa was hunched, peering skeptically at his new assistant. As Truva crouched beside him, he pointed vaguely toward a small heap of plants the foragers had gathered and said, “Pass me that leek.”

Truva reached for the plant she believed Éofa to be pointing at, for she didn’t rightly know what a leek was.

“No, no, no!” Éofa said exasperatedly. “That’s a potato! The one next to it! No, the other side! Yes, _that_ is a leek. _Thank_ you.”

“I am sorry, I—”

“That is all very well,” Éofa cut her off. “It does not surprise me that a slave should be ignorant of the proper ways of cooking.” Truva ducked her head in an attempt to conceal her hurt expression, though she knew his words to be true. After some consideration, Éofa appeared regretful for having had such a short temper.

“Here, would you cut this onion for me? Take this knife and follow my demonstration.” He handed Truva a bulb and sat down next to his new companion, first explaining that she had to peel the onion before showing her how to cut it.

“What is this?” Truva cried as her eyes began to sear and tears streamed down her face.

“Ah, now you know the pitfalls of cooking!” Éofa laughed, in a similarly tearful state. He proceeded to show Truva the proper way to prepare all the ingredients that would go into the stew he was preparing, displaying patience all the while, for he was forced to acknowledge that however slow Truva worked, having assistance was faster than cooking on his own.

The next morning, it was Éofa who led Truva to his horse rather than the leader.

Their journey progressed for several weeks in this fashion. As each of the riders took turns running, they observed as Truva’s skeptical wariness of their horses flourished into at least nominal tolerance, and she ultimately developed the ability to ride even the most skittish of mounts – though her companions knew it not to be such a grand accomplishment, for the _Mearas_ and their ilk that populated the lands of the Riddermark bore their riders with such ease that it spoke more to the horses’ nature than the skill of any rider.

Along their journey, Truva learned not only how to stay atop the intimidating creatures, but also many skills she did not even know existed. The company taught her of all the care horses entailed, of cooking a variety of basic meals, as well as foraging in the desolate terrain. She glowed with an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment when she was at long last asked to participate in watch, and her heart soared from the sign of growing trust.

How long they traveled, Truva could not be certain. There was no real marker of the passage of time in a Hidland slave’s life beyond single fights and individual days. It felt to her as though she had doubled in age since her departure from the Valley, yet she cherished each passing moment.

To someone who had spent their entire life watching a small, mountainous valley from the inside of a cage, every experience was precious. Any type of tree was fascinating – save the scraggly pines she was already familiar with – and a copse of such unique trees was doubly so, for it also housed all manner of animals she knew nothing of. Every rising of the sun brought new, unexpected pleasures for her.

As they continued on their journey, Truva also grew increasingly close to the Riders, who were thankful for her growing culinary competence and amused by her unceasing awe of the ordinary. Self-conscious in her lack of knowledge, Truva did not ask questions frequently, yet the others could not help but notice that their new companion found the simplest of things befuddling. Even the mere concept of jokes was unfamiliar to her – a fact they gradually determined by her failure to laugh at a single one. This discovery brought about an attempt to explain jokes, which ultimately only served to confound her further, and their explanation gradually devolved into no more than a joke-telling contest, and all hope was lost.

One day, the Riders lounged upon the ground during a noontime rest, leaning against their untethered saddles and watching with particular curiosity as Truva waded along the shallows of a river, another new and joyful experience for her. “What a glorious river!” she cried to the world, arms splayed wide.

“Truva,” Éofa called out.

“Yes?” she replied.

“If you have never seen such things as forests or rivers, how is it that you know what they are, and what to call them?” he asked.

Truva emerged from the river, wiping her feet dry upon the grass as she walked, then took a seat amongst the group. “Well,” she began, “When I was young, before I was locked in an isolation cage in the market, I lived in the Fighters’ Quarters with the other slaves. Sometimes at night before we slept, the older trainers would narrate all kinds of stories. We learned of many things we never thought we would see, yet simply imagining them made us happy – or at least less miserable.”

“Is that how you came to speak so properly, as well?” asked one Eorlingas. “By listening to the stories of your elders?”

“My habits of speech are due to my owner, Dregant,” said Truva. “He insisted all his slaves speak to him as though he were a king, for it pleased him to be addressed so. Some owners had no concern for their slaves’ way of speaking, so long as they fought well, yet most of us were held to absurd standards of eloquence. Often we did not even comprehend the words that we uttered, yet should we fail in our deference – and oft did it happen, in our masters’ opinions – were we beaten.”

“You were told stories, but not jokes?” asked another Rider, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

“I suppose it simply did not occur to us to view life in such a way,” said Truva. “The people of the Hidden Lands are a fairly angry lot.” The Hidland fighter herself appeared unaffected, though her words sent a shiver of sympathy through the Riders, and they felt somewhat guilty for having been so amused by her interest in seemingly ordinary things.

The company continued southward for some time before crossing another river, the land beyond which was barren and uninviting, stretching endlessly unbroken to the horizon in the west, even as white-capped mountains reared up before them to the south. Truva’s enthusiasm began to wane, and it seemed then in her mind that they would never reach any destination at all, and nothing save emptiness and mountains lay before the riders.

Her exuberance was at long last restored when, after a great many days, they came across a wide, well-worn road. The Riders’ pace quickened as they turned east along this route, signaling some sense of purpose unknown to Truva. It was the following morning that she rose to observe the sun ascending almost directly before her through a gap in the mountains, and the road led them to the ford of yet a third river.

After crossing, the road bent to the southeast, and later that day the company was greeted by a most astounding sight: off to their right, tucked between the foothills of a towering mountain, was a prodigious monument to the industry of men. Truva knew not what to make of the awe-inspiring construction of earth and rock, for she had no context by which she might compare it; she merely gazed with open mouth upon its massive, sleek walls and staggering towers.

“That is Hornburg,” explained the leader, riding up beside her. “Our stout fortress, and base of the West-mark. Long has it protected our borders and served as refuge in time of need.”

Truva had no words with which she might voice her wonder, so she remained silent and continued to stare as they rode past at a distance.

It was but two days later, as the Riders ascended a slight rise amid the great grassy plains rolling in the late afternoon sun, that the leader brought the company to a halt. He signaled for Truva to approach him.

“There, do you see?” he said, pointing far off into the distance, where a rocky outcrop lay at the base of the southerly mountains.

“Perhaps?” said Truva, unsure of what she was expected to see.

“That is Edoras; our home.”

Truva’s heart convulsed. Home, yet a place unfamiliar, one she had never been. Infinite promise brought infinite dread. Despite the great length of their journey, Truva had never devoted much time to considering what might occur once the Riders had reached their destination. Would she be expected to travel on, or would she be allowed to make their home her own? Would it even be a place she desired to make her home?

With great trepidation, she followed as the Riders pressed on. In their excitement, their pace increased further, though even the horseless Rider seemed not to mind. They progressed swiftly across the plains and were soon within hailing distance of the tremendous walls.

Truva could see a great many wooden buildings clustered about the base of the hill, and a particularly grand hall perched atop its crest. In comparison to the makeshift huts that littered the Hidlands, built haphazardly of salvaged materials, this structured city spoke of purpose and intent. Where the Hidlanders had relied on secrecy and the mountainous terrain to protect them, the people of Edoras had constructed intimidating fortifications of wood and stone.

A horn was blown as the Riders approached the gates, causing Truva to start and nearly fall from the saddle. Its sound was very different from the ring of a fight bell, yet it sparked in her the same sense of unease and anxiety. Instead of coming under immediate attack as she would after a bell, however, Truva watched as the gates swung open and allowed the Riders to enter.

A massive swarm of people gathered, raising their voices in an unintelligible clamour as Riders rode by, yet even when they had passed from view, Truva could still feel the stares of curiosity and suspicion upon her back as the people noted her bedraggled clothing and dark, braided hair. She rushed to follow the others along a path that cut switchbacks up the hill toward the great hall, her sense of misgiving growing the higher they ascended.

The Riders dismounted at the peak of the hill and handed the reins of their horses to guards that awaited there, each greeting the other in the same melodic language Truva had heard the Riders use back in the Hidlands. During their journey, her companions had politely deferred to Truva and spoken only in the tongue she understood, so it was with a start that she recalled it was not their primary language.

With quivering heart and legs, Truva followed the others up a wide flight of stone steps toward the immense wooden hall, its pillars adorned with ornate and intricate carvings, incomprehensible to Truva’s uneducated eye. The doors were opened before them by the guards, only to reveal a chamber of unspeakable beauty beyond, the history of which lay tangible upon the air.

As the riders entered, a group of men broke off their conversation and glanced up. The one nearest them, a tall Man whose head boasted radiant golden locks lightly flecked with the silver of age, and whose proud shoulders bore a splendid velvet mantle of the deepest green, turned round with a welcoming smile upon his face. This was a man whose very presence emanated a regal air and demanded respect, and without knowing who he was Truva felt veneration for so grand a figure.

The Man spoke a greeting in the Riders’ language, and immediately all members of Truva’s company bowed deeply, and she quickly followed suit. The Riders replied in kind to the Man, yet caught unawares, Truva concluded it was better not to say anything at all than to speak out of turn and draw attention to herself.

It was then that the leader of the Riders stepped forward and indicated Truva. “She does not speak our tongue, my lord,” he said.

“I see!” remarked the Man, changing at once to the Common Tongue. “I see also that, while you rode out eight, you now return as nine – what an interesting development!”

“This is Théoden, our King,” whispered Éofa to Truva. A king! She had heard the word before, yet such titles held no real significance in the Hidlands. The free villagers were so averse to cooperation that they proved simply incapable of choosing a leader. Any individual who attained any modicum of power was immediately challenged by an endless stream of other ambitious villagers, the ultimate result being that no single person was ever able to solidify leadership. The Hidlanders therefore lived by a loose set of generally accepted rules, and settled any conflict with violence – often by proxy. Truva had won Dregant many disagreements, though what those disagreements were and what advantage he gained through them, she knew not.

But a king! To see such a dignitary before her very eyes was the most shocking of all Truva’s recent experiences. “It is an honor, my lord,” she said, bowing her head deeper. The King laughed.

“I am not your lord, at least not yet!” said the King, though his laughter was not unkind. “‘Your highness,’ certainly, but ‘my lord’ implies possession.”

It was upon hearing this explanation that Truva at last understood why the Riders’ leader had been so amused by her term of address, and she felt ashamed.

“I appreciate the gesture, as it is,” the King continued. “Now, tell me your story.”

“Your highness,” the leader spoke, to Truva’s great relief, for she did not believe herself capable of speech before such a magnificent audience. “Her name is Truva; we came upon her in the Hidden Lands.”

“The Hidden Lands! So their existence is real,” mused the King, though the look of concern that followed was immediately apparent. “It is said to be a nasty, brutish place.”

“She was a fighter,” the leader continued. The King’s expression did not improve. Indeed, his concern seemed rather to grow.

“A fighter, you say? Every tale that emerges from that dark place warns that to take anything from a Man of the Hidden Lands, let alone something of such great value, will prompt him to exact ferocious revenge. Not only will he take back what is his, but also destroy everything that belongs to he who took it. To bring a stolen fighter here—“

“She won her freedom,” the leader interrupted, and in the momentary pause that followed, the King’s countenance transformed immediately to one of astoundment.

“So it is true – one thousand fights in a land famed for its brutal fighters. Incredible,” he said.

“Upon our arrival, she had just reigned victorious in her thousandth fight, and begged for us to take her,” said Éofa. “We felt it only right. She has proven to be a great asset on our return journey, for she is a quick study, though it has taken her quite some time to grow comfortable with the horses.”

“Absolutely incredible,” the King said, still ruminating internally. An enigmatic expression lingered on his face as he studied Truva in silence for a few moments before clapping his hands suddenly. “Well! It seems as though you have had a most intriguing adventure! Truva, is it? I welcome you wholeheartedly to Edoras, and invite you to linger here for as long as you desire.”

He then turned to the others and said, “I am sure you are all exhausted from your journey. You are free to take your leave, see to your horses and families, and rest at long last.”

The Riders turned to go, though the King motioned to the leader as they did so, saying, “Éomer, a word, please.” The leader motioned for the others to proceed, falling back to speak with the King, and yet it was through this minor interaction that Truva at long last learned the name of her savior.

When all save the leader had exited the hall, Éofa turned and asked Truva, “Have you ever visited a stable?”

“A what?” she responded, to which Éofa simply laughed and gestured for her to follow. The Riders accepted the reins of their mounts back from the guards, and led the horses to another building just beside the great hall. When Éofa shoved the doors aside, row after row of the giant creatures snorted and craned their necks to observe their visitors, to Truva’s great wonderment. The extreme rarity of horses in the Hidlands meant such an assemblage had been unthinkable to her mere moments before.

“These are the mounts of the King and his Riders, many of them _Mearas_ , the descendants of Felaróf,” Éofa explained. “Though they are but a small sampling of the pride of the Mark, they are certainly its most distinguished.”

“So there are yet more? Does— does Éomer keep his horse here?” Truva asked, surreptitiously attempting to confirm the leader’s name.

“You mean ‘my lord’?” Éofa laughed, still amused by her unwitting gaffe. “Yes – his horse abides here, for Éomer is a Marshal of the Mark, thus one of our highest leaders; he is sister-son to our King, and not unlike the King’s own child since the passing of his mother, the King’s sister.”

Truva gasped at this trove of information, for even in her greatest estimations she had not supposed the leader to be so significant a figure. “So it was incorrect to call him ‘my lord?’”

“It is a form of address typically reserved for other Eorlingas,” explained Éofa. “I do believe his acceptance of your usage indicates – by extension – an acceptance of you in and of yourself.”

Truva flushed with joy to hear Éofa’s words, and it was therefore with unparalleled enthusiasm that she assisted the Riders in untacking and rubbing their mounts down. Their tasks were finished all the faster for it, though a sudden realization caused Truva’s exuberance to wane: the Riders all had families and loved ones to return to – but where was she to go?

“Do not look so glum,” said Éofa, as if he had read her thoughts. “We will not abandon you! Now come meet my family, and we shall find you a place to stay!”

It was then as he led her from the stables that Éofa motioned as if to throw his arm casually about Truva’s shoulders, yet without conscious thought she found herself flinching and shying away, and she ducked away from his touch before it ever reached her. Images flashed in her mind – horrifying memories, sharp yet indistinct, that brought with them an overpowering terror – of the countless times a far less friendly arm had similarly held her for a far more sinister purpose.

Éofa held his hands up, yielding to her. “I am sorry, it was presumptuous of me.”

“No,” said Truva, her heart still racing painfully in her throat and her hands trembling. “I greatly appreciate the gesture. I was startled, that is all.”

Éofa gave her a curious look, though he did not question her further and simply led her back down the hill, waving goodbye to the other Riders as they parted along different paths. Before long, the two of them stood before a prim, respectable wooden house with a thatch roof. Éofa strutted right to the door and pounded upon it a few times before entering without waiting for a response.

When Truva peered into the tidy home, she glimpsed a man and woman sitting at a large table with a tiny toddler perched between them. Their heads snapped up, startled by Éofa’s entrance.

“I’m home!” Éofa cried, arms wide. There was instant pandemonium as the two adults leapt to embrace him, spilling the food they had been eating in the process. All three spoke at once in a riotous mix of tongues, the end result being that not one could be heard and – not wanting to be left out – the little child joined in by simply bawling. Truva observed the entire scene from the entrance, smiling and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Éofa pulled away after a few moments, creating a brief pause in the chaos. “I would like to introduce Truva, a rescue from our recent ventures! This is Éomód, my brother, and his wife, Héodis. This little bubble of trouble is Fulmod, their son of two years.”

The pandemonium renewed, with a great many welcomes and greetings and nice to meet yous being exchanged, and Truva was thankful that they all spoke intentionally in the Common Tongue so that she might comprehend. The spilled food was set upright and cleaned, Truva was dragged to the table and bade to eat her entire weight in food, and Éofa was placed opposite and demanded to do the same.

Such a situation was entirely unfamiliar to Truva. Even among free villagers, family units did not form frequently in the Hidlands. Children were fed, expected to work, then sent out on their own as soon as their needs outweighed their usefulness. Occasionally they would settle in the same village as their parents, though far more often they left, never to return.

Confusion Truva as she observed the joyful interactions of the family, causing her to question her very understanding of humanity – whether people were truly meant to lead brief, miserable existences as she had come to believe, or if happiness was perhaps what all others save Truva considered normal. She was lost in a web of such thoughts, staring unseeing at the cheerful family, when she realized Éofa was calling her name repeatedly.

“Ah, yes, sorry. I must have been distracted for a moment,” said Truva, shaking her head clear.

“Poor thing,” Héodis cooed, “You must be exhausted!”

“It will be dark soon,” said Éofa, with a concerned glance at Truva before turning to his sister. “I was wondering if she might not stay here for the night?”

“It is the least we can do for a guest of the Mark!” exclaimed Héodis.

“You may make use of my room,” said Éofa, depriving Truva of the opportunity to interject. “I have business to attend to with Éomer as it is, and I expect we will make a very late night of it. Even if that be not the case, I can abide in my quarters on the training field.”

“It is settled, then!” said Héodis, drowning out Truva’s protests. “First, let us get you cleaned up, then I shall find some things for you to wear,” she said, eyeing Truva’s rather pitiful garb, which had been cobbled together from what few items the riders could spare once her Hidland uniform had disintegrated.

“Excellent! I will draw a bath,” Éomód volunteered as Héodis bustled into another room to raid her dresser.

“A bath?” Truva questioned. The only washing she had ever undergone was when Dregant splashed a bucket of cold water through the bars of her cage and ordered her to scrub with her hands. It was an occurrence that happened after every few fights, when even the free villagers – not overly fond of hygiene themselves – began to complain of the stench.

Éofa gave a knowing look to his brother before quickly saying goodbye and edging toward the door and ducking out, presumably to meet with Éomer. Truva felt almost abandoned at Éofa’s sudden departure, though the young couple did their utmost to make her feel at ease. After some time, Héodis led her to a side room, where a wooden tub stood filled with steaming water. Truva presumed that must be the bath.

Héodis kindly did not assume any knowledge on Truva’s part, and thoroughly explained how to bathe, indicating soap and how to use it, as well as towels to dry off with. She also placed a sleeping gown on a stool just beyond where it might get splashed, then left Truva to her privacy.

It was the most wonderful feeling Truva had ever experienced. Though her knees stuck out of the small tub, her body still melted in the heat of the water, and all the pains of her journey and beyond were soothed. The smell of the soap was a luxury, recalling the scent of springtime blossoms.

It was then that Truva realized she had never been truly clean in the entire expanse of her memory, not even on her journey from the Hidlands. She held out her arms before her and examined them closely, noting the slight angle of her right forearm where a broken bone had not healed properly, her perpetually swollen knuckles, a few scars from glancing kicks – a fighter’s body that suddenly seemed newly and wholly her own.

Emerging from the bath, Truva dried off as she had been shown with a cloth of unfamiliar softness. She easily donned the sleeping gown afterward, for though even women in the Hidlands rarely wore anything save tunics and trousers, its construction was not complicated. Once robed, Truva emerged hesitantly into the main room at last, where Héodis and Éomód sat conversing quietly before the fire.

“Ah, don’t you just look like a new person!” said Héodis. “Come join us by the fire and let your hair dry out. Even in this warm weather you’ll catch cold should you sleep as you are.”

Truva trod over to the fire and sat upon a rug next to Fulmod, then proceeded to play a quick game of peek-a-boo with the toddler, as she had with the young children of fighters in the Hidlands. Fulmod giggled drowsily at her antics for a few minutes before sleep overtook him. Truva sat then silently, gazing about at the cozy dwelling littered with objects whose purpose she could only guess. “What a lovely house you have,” she remarked.

“In comparison to others in Edoras, it is quite humble,” Éomód replied, amused.

“Your floor is not made of dirt,” said Truva, and Éomód and Héodis both laughed good-naturedly at her bluntness.

“Well, I suppose that is true!” said Héodis.

“Shall I tell a story?” suggested Éomód as he drew Fulmod onto his lap.

“That would be lovely!” Héodis cheered, echoing Truva’s internal sentiments. Éomód launched into a traditional Eorlingas tale as Fulmod rustled fitfully in his arms. Truva did not understand much of it, for the story was full of names and places and events that she had no familiarity with, yet she enjoyed it nevertheless, and was greatly disappointed when the tale was brought abruptly to an end by a deafening snore from Fulmod.

As Éomód rose to put his son to bed, Héodis remarked, “Your hair is dry. If you would like, I can show you to Éofa’s room now. He is typically beastly and never cleans up after himself, but I’ve had time to clean since he has been away, and I think you shall find it quite tidy.”

Héodis showed Truva through the door to a room beside the bath. Inside the simple, sparse room beyond was what she could only assume was a bed, though she had never seen one. A window, yet another object unfamiliar to her, gave vantage unto the nearby mountains, purple and black in the dusky evening.

“I wish you goodnight,” said Héodis as she closed the door.

“Goodnight,” replied Truva, “And thank you,” though she knew words could never fully articulate the all-encompassing gratitude she felt in that moment. She climbed onto the bed then, and upon the discovery of layers of blankets, supposed that she was expected to lie beneath them. The bed itself diminished the softness of the towel from her bath by a thousandfold, almost rendering it so soft as to be uncomfortable, yet Truva was resolved to experience genuine rest for the first time in her deprived existence.


	3. The Banquet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Mozart, Sinfonia Concertante for Violin, Viola and Orchestra in E flat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL3xZ8Qlhro&ab_channel=Am4d3usM0z4rt)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Swamp Sounds at Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ih4_1FyVjaY&t=674s&ab_channel=TheGuildofAmbience)

Truva’s somnolent bliss did not last long. The dim light of dawn had scarcely begun to creep in through the window when she awoke, for she was simply too accustomed to arising early. She heard no sound of anyone else stirring in the house when she emerged from her room, and therefore decided to make herself useful. She scoured the corner where the family appeared to prepare food, searching for ingredients to any of the limited dishes she knew how to cook.

When she determined there were sufficient vegetables for a simple stew and had located a pot, Truva gathered the ingredients and went in search of firewood. She acknowledged her actions were immensely presumptuous; it was possible the family had set aside these foods for some specific purpose, yet Truva was now confident enough in her foraging skills that she knew she would be able to replace what she intended to use if need be.

She discovered a stack of firewood outside and proceeded to build a fire a short distance from the house entrance, where it would be far easier to cook than over the elaborate fireplace inside. Other early risers who came and went from the neighboring houses observed her skeptically, but scurried away when Truva caught them staring.

The stew was nearly complete when Éomód opened the front door and peered out at her, sleepily scratching his head. “What are you doing?” he inquired. “And so early in the morning?”

“I made breakfast!” beamed Truva, quickly adding, “I hope it was not too much of an imposition.”

“Oh, how splendid! Neither Héodis nor I enjoy cooking in the morning. You even made use of our wilting vegetables, I see! Well done, well done,” he said as he emerged from the house and assisted Truva in carrying the soup indoors and setting it upon a small table of iron, which sat against the wall.

“This is a stove,” he explained, indicating the iron table. He opened a small door on the front. “In here you set a fire, then you can cook things either in the furnace itself, or on top of the stove.”

“What about the fireplace?” asked Truva. Even the Fighters’ Quarters had a fireplace that the slaves huddled around in winter, though it was no more than an open pit in the dirt floor of the barracks’ central area. A decorative fireplace built into the very wall of a house was an entirely unfamiliar concept to Truva.

“It is almost exclusively used for warmth, though sometimes simply warmth of spirit!” said Héodis as she emerged from the room opposite. “And while the primary purpose of the stove is for cooking, it too serves to ward off the chill in winter, and our home is small enough that usually one or the other is sufficient to keep us warm. Though I digress – what is that lovely smell?”

“Our guest was so kind as to make breakfast!” Éomód exclaimed enthusiastically as he ladled the stew into bowls he had pulled from a cupboard.

“Éofa taught you well, I see!” Héodis said to Truva, greeting her husband with an embrace and peering curiously into the pot.

“What about Fulmod?” asked Éomód.

“He is still sleeping; let him a little while longer. You know how positively disagreeable he can be when awoken earlier than he likes.”

“I know all too well. Let us eat all this soup without him, then!” Éomód jested as he sat down at the table, passing one bowl to his wife and setting another before Truva.

“Ah!” exclaimed Héodis as they began their meal, “There are rumors that there is to be a banquet tonight, in light of the Riders’ safe return.”

“Rumors already? How did you hear such tales so quickly?”

“Several of the market greengrocers witnessed the company’s arrival yesterday and immediately relayed it to every person they knew – including the king’s chef, who promised a grand feast.”

“Well, I’ll be! Have you ever been to a party before?” Éomód asked Truva.

“I have,” Truva replied, “As the entertainment.”

“I imagine you shall find participating quite different,” said Héodis kindly, for though Truva’s cavalier attitude made her feel somewhat unsettled, she believed it not to be intentional, rather an effect of the new arrival’s strange upbringing. She was nevertheless thankful that the sound of Fulmod rustling in the other room provided her with an excuse to stand and exit. Truva stood as well, and collected dishes with the intent to wash them.

“Allow me to assist,” said Éomód.

“No, please relax,” said Truva.

“Truly, washing dishes is no task for guests. Besides, for all we know, you might go all the way down to the river to wash them without knowing any better!”

It was at that moment that a heavy knock was struck upon the door and, just as Éofa had done the previous evening, Éomer entered without so much as waiting for a response. “A very good morning to you all! I have come to check on our new ward!”

“Good morning, my lord!” Truva called back, relieved to see a familiar face, yet still unsure of the proper form of address. Had not Éofa said something with regard to Éomer being of some elevated rank the previous day? Yet the term escaped her, for her mind had been so entirely overwhelmed.

“And a very good morning to you, too!” Éomód greeted his cousin. “We were just washing dishes. Would you care to join us?”

“Is there any more joyous way to spend such a morning than washing dishes?” jested Éomer. “I see you have already been introduced to Truva’s cooking skills. I would have you know, she had never cooked so much as a single dish in her life when we found her! It is largely thanks to your brother that she can cook at all.”

Together they carried the bowls outside and washed them in a low trough, though three bowls to clean between the three of them meant that they were finished almost as soon as they had started. When they returned indoors, Héodis was just emerging from the room with Fulmod.

“Ah, good morn, Éomer! Would you care for a bowl of stew?” Héodis asked as she prepared a small dish for the grumpy-countenanced toddler.

“No, thank you. I must be off soon, though it does smell delicious. Speaking of food, have you heard tell of the feast?” said Éomer as they all took seats at the dining table.

“In passing,” said Éomód, with a cheeky glance at his wife.

“Héodis, could I perhaps convince you to lend one of your lovely dresses to our guest? It is an imposition, I know, and yet a single day’s notice is far too insufficient to order anything new.”

“A dress? I have no need of a dress,” Truva balked.

“Would you prefer to attend in a sleeping gown?” chided Héodis before turning to Éomer and saying, “I would love to!”

“She adores dressing others up, so consider it more a favor to her,” Éomód laughed.

“I thought so much!” said Éomer, rising. “Well, I must check on my troops and ensure they have not grown indolent in my absence, though I am certain they have.”

“It was lovely seeing you,” Truva said with all sincerity.

“And I, you,” replied Éomer. “I shall see you all again tonight!”

“Goodbye!” called Éomód as Éomer shut the door behind him.

“Now,” said Héodis, turning to Truva, “It is time to test my skills!”

“I, too, must be off. Horses await!” said Éomód.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Héodis dismissively as she waved in the direction of her husband, never once taking her eyes off Truva. “That is all very well and good, but what is to be done with _you_?”

Truva was to learn that there was indeed quite a lot that could be done, and she felt entirely bewildered by the seemingly endless layers of clothing, and the complexity of Héodis’ task. As Fulmod played in the sea of fabric littering the floor, Héodis demanded Truva try on a parade of dresses, ultimately deciding upon a burgundy one.

“Because it accentuates your brown eyes,” she explained. Truva did not wish to upset Héodis any further by revealing that she had not known until that precise moment what color her eyes were. Hoping to avoid any pitying looks from Héodis, she simply stared at the cloth in her hand. To others, such a dress might have been described as plain – rough, even – yet in Truva’s eyes it was the finest regalia imaginable, and she was thrilled by the thought of donning such splendor.

“For now however,” said Héodis, breaking Truva’s reverie, “Put on this ordinary sheath. I shall take you to the market and show you off around Edoras!”

Even the simple, cream colored sheath was splendid compared to anything Truva had ever worn. She quickly pulled it over her head without a word, reveling in the flowing swish of the skirt as she followed Héodis into the main room, where she was handed a basket.

“Make yourself useful, now!” said Héodis. “I imagine we will eat so much tonight that we shall still be full tomorrow morn, yet I am determined to bake bread in the meantime!”

Héodis walked out the front door with Truva and Fulmod in tow. As the trio made their way down the hill in the direction of the massive gate through which Truva had entered the previous day, Héodis called out greetings to all they passed in her native tongue, leaving Truva to do little more than bow politely.

It was not long before they reached the market, yet it was wholly different from the one Truva had languished in for years. She realized now that the market she was accustomed to had been tiny, full of traders constantly irritated with each other and their customers, a physical manifestation of the frustration and anger that dominated their lives.

The atmosphere of this market was not even remotely similar. The hubbub and bustle dwarfed that of the Hidlands; in place of an angry racket were pleasant sounds, and rather than threatening to fight each other, vendors and their customers seemed to haggle in a neighborly way. Each greeted the other with smiles and friendly gestures.

“Good morning, Dernrid!” Héodis called out in the Common Tongue as they approached a stall, colorfully laden with the season’s fruit and vegetables. “I would like you to meet Truva, a visitor from beyond our lands!”

“Lovely to meet you!” the greengrocer replied, shaking Truva’s hand heartily. “And you brought the little one with you! I have a treat hidden away just for you,” she said, handing Fulmod a small handful of grapes from under the display.

“What do we say?” prompted Héodis.

“Thank you,” whispered Fulmod, shyly burrowing his face into his mother’s dress. He then proceeded to shove as many grapes as would fit into his mouth.

“You are most welcome,” chuckled Dernrid, then turning to Héodis and asked, “Have you heard news of the feast?”

“Nothing but!” said Héodis.

“It has been terribly bad for business this morning!” Dernrid complained. “Not a single soul has any intention of cooking food well into next week, I reckon!”

“Come now, do not be too put out. It has been quite a long while since we have had such reason to celebrate! And I have every intention of being a single soul with the intention of cooking, for I am in need of some potatoes.”

“Very well, you always have been the sunlight to my rain. Here you are, my dear, as well as some scallions for having brought me levity this day. They would have gone bad anyway, for I shan’t sell them any time soon,” she said, dismissing Héodis’ polite gestures of refusal.

“I shall see you at the banquet, then?”

“Would not miss it for the world!”

Héodis and Truva continued through the market, the latter constantly jogging to catch up with the former after having paused to observe each unfamiliar sight. Every corner, every stall revealed a new point of fascination to her: trinkets and toys, jewelry, weaponry, candy. Héodis feigned not to notice so that she might not cause Truva to feel self-conscious, and even made a point to walk slower, for she could not help but feel touched by the newcomer’s astonishment.

Héodis stopped before one particularly luxurious cart, draped in soft, dark gray velvet. “Do you know what these are?” Héodis asked Truva, motioning to a collection of hand-sized metal items with long spikes. Some had many prongs, some only had one, yet all were topped with intricate designs of flowers and animals. A few were even inlaid with beautifully colored stones or jewels.

“Weapons? Cooking utensils?” ventured Truva as Héodis repressed a laugh.

“They are combs, for your hair. Like this,” she said as she placed one in her own golden hair, which was neatly braided in a crown about her head.

“I have seen jewels like this at the market where I lived before; they are on the rare occasion used as currency,” explained Truva, hesitant to name her origin, “But the villagers had no need of any ornamentation, and so it was with infrequency the few passing traders brought such items to barter with.”

“That is quite logical,” said Héodis, extricating a particularly sharp comb from Fulmod’s curious fingers, then removing the one from her plaits as well. “Your hair is the most unique I have ever seen. No maiden in the Mark grows such locks.”

“It was so in my Village, as well,” Truva said as she pulled a few of her braids forward so that she might see her hair. The primary color was deep brown, so dark it was almost black – all save for a streak of white toward the front, about three fingers wide, so pure a white that the only thing Truva knew to compare it to was the undisturbed snow on the mountaintops in winter in the valley of her childhood. Her piebald coloring had led to the nickname ‘Magpie’ in the Hidlands, a term which Truva wholeheartedly despised.

Héodis paused thoughtfully for a moment, contemplating Truva. “I suppose something ordinary will not do,” she muttered to herself before lifting Fulmod into her arms. “I have something to show you. Follow me.”

They walked much faster once they exited the market, though Héodis continued to greet everyone they passed as the trio walked among clusters of houses. Héodis led them even further downhill, toward the very wall and main gate itself.

Upon reaching the entrance, Héodis and Truva were let through a smaller entrance beside the main gates, with a promise to the sentries to be back shortly. They had not gone far, however, when Héodis halted suddenly before a series of small grassy hillocks that lined both sides of the main road, covered in flowers as white as the streak in Truva’s hair.

“These are the Kings of the Riddermark. Here lies Thengel, father of our great king Théoden, and his father, Théoden’s father’s father, all the way back to our first king, Eorl, who tamed the untamable white stallion, Felaróf. You know nothing of these deeds as of yet, I am sure, yet it is my hope that one day our history will become your own.”

“That is my wish as well,” said Truva with all sincerity. Héodis nodded, then bent to pluck one of the white flowers.

“Simbelmynë. It grows unceasing upon the graves of our forebears.” She held the blossom up before her, comparing it to Truva’s plaits. “I believe it suits you far better than any manmade ornamentation.”

“Is it not presumptuous to dress myself in the flowers of Kings?” Truva asked.

“The steed of Thengel has long since joined him, and together their spirits have ridden off into the Fields of Valor many years ago, ending our grieving period. None shall take offense; indeed, I do believe the Eorlingas will interpret it as a subtle tribute to the Mark itself, and as goodwill toward our people,” assured Héodis as she bent to pluck a small collection of the flowers.

They returned to the house then, where Héodis placed the flowers in water so that they would not fade. With Truva’s assistance, she then began the bewildering process of making bread, and to make a stew from the potatoes they had purchased from Dernrid earlier. Truva observed carefully so that she might add another recipe to her growing collection.

“Let us take a bowl to Éomód at the stables,” Héodis said as she removed the stew from the stove, the bread dough rising beside. “He is sure to be hungry, having forgotten to take his midday meal with him this morning.”

Truva took charge of the food and Héodis carried Fulmod as they made their way to the stables Truva had been shown the previous day. Éomód was preoccupied with the inspection of a horse’s hooves when they entered, though he greeted them warmly and was more than relieved to sit down and eat.

“What are your duties here?” Truva asked as he gratefully accepted the bowl from her.

“I am a farrier,” replied Éomód, “It is my job to ensure the horses do not fall sick, and care for them when they inevitably do!”

“They are all so beautiful,” Truva remarked, observing the impressive assemblage of horses in every color imaginable, from midnight black to dapple gray, cremello, buckskin, even blue roan. The creatures that had so recently intimidated her had transformed in her eyes, for she had come to see them as beautiful individuals with personalities in their own right.

“These are the horses of the King, many of them _Mearas_ – descendants of Felaróf. There are none greater in all of Middle Earth!” he bragged. “I heard tell that you have developed a propensity for riding. Though the _Mearas_ bear naught but the Kings and Princes of the Mark, you might yet tame a similar beast one day.”

“I dare not have such high hopes; I still struggle to ride,” Truva said, stroking the forelock of Éofa’s chestnut steed, a horse she had ridden several times along the journey to Edoras. He had been even more spirited than Éomer’s mount Firefoot, yet far more entertaining once Truva had grown accustomed to his peculiar stride.

“Well, I must return to my work,” said Éomód, having finished the stew. Truva accepted the bowl from him and she and Héodis bade goodbye as he turned back to the horses.

Upon their return to the house, Héodis settled Fulmod in for a nap before she began to tidy up, passing the time before the feast with busywork. Truva immediately leapt to assist. Having spent the majority of her life in a tiny cage, tidying up was something Truva had never previously been expected to do, and she found it quite to her liking, for it gave her a pleasant sense of belonging in the humble home. The tasks also ignited a tiny sense of disquietude within her, however, and caused her to feel as though her presence was an imposition upon this young family, and a source of additional exertion.

When at last the time of the feast approached, Héodis and Truva donned the dresses they had selected that morning. Héodis then bade Truva sit at the dining table, upon which she set an alarming array of brushes and combs and pins.

“Though your hairstyle is truly unique, might you permit me to make a few alterations?” she asked with delicate politeness, eyeing Truva’s braids. “I suspect a few of the elders will be quite taken aback at the appearance of a foreigner as it is, and it might perhaps ease your transition if you were to be presented somewhat less… remarkably.”

“I have no particular affinity for this style,” said Truva. “It was born of necessity and practicality, not any sense of aesthetic. Please, it is with the deepest gratitude that I accept any assistance you choose bestow upon me.”

“Very well, then,” said Héodis, taking the end of a braid into her hand and removing its tie before slowly unraveling the strands of hair. Even though Truva was fully aware of Héodis’ intentions and good will, still her proximity and position behind Truva caused panic to rise within her, which she fought with all her might to smother.

“Would you mind if I inquired as to what necessity required such a severe hairstyle?” asked Héodis, oblivious to Truva’s internal turmoil, yet her words gave Truva something new to consider, and she felt her agitation subside somewhat as she debated how much to reveal. As far as she could recall, Héodis did not yet know anything of the situation the Eorlingas had taken her from, and she feared her host would find the details too horrific and beastly to accept; yet the community would surely learn sooner or later, in which case Truva felt she would prefer to know in advance whether she would be rejected, before she grew attached to this new land or its people.

“I was a slave fighter in the Hidden Lands, until your husband’s brother and the others rescued me,” she said at last, and heard Héodis’ sharp intake of breath. The Eorlingas’ hands continued wordlessly to work at Truva’s hair, however, so she took a deep breath and continued. “Braided hair was the easiest way for fighters to ensure their safety, so that others did not use it against them.”

“Could you not cut it?” asked Héodis.

“Some did, though that required a knife. Most of us were not trusted with knives, and as our owners did not find appealing the idea of touching us or devoting their own time to us, they refused to perform the task themselves. Braids were our best alternative, and kept us occupied in the long hours or days between fights. Those whose owners provided at least a little for them were sometimes given ties; others such as myself were forced snatch what we could, or beg from the very few Villagers who pitied our plight enough to toss us a scrap of whatever was at hand.”

Héodis remained silent for a while, unbraiding and brushing and pulling and pinning Truva’s hair. “The cruelty of Man is boundless,” she responded at last through clenched teeth, her regimented words belying a surge of emotion that roiled beneath the surface.

Truva did not speak further, for the discussion had allowed uncertainty to redouble in her mind. She dreaded the idea of what might become of her should the Eorlingas ultimately decide she was too savage, too objectionable to reside among them. Her enthusiasm for the feast suddenly drained, only to be replaced by fear and doubt.

“Come,” said Héodis after some time, when the fluttering of her hands had finally ceased. “How long must you have worn your hair in these braids, for the tightness left such a harsh wave that I have not the skill to undo, yet I did what I could.”

“Anything is certain to be an improvement,” Truva reassured her.

Héodis helped her to stand, for Truva had sat for so long that her legs tingled and refused to move, then led her into the larger bedroom where Fulmod still rested. Together they stood before a long, narrow pane of glass which stood against the wall – yet it was not merely glass; it was like silvery moonlight, and when she looked in it Truva could see her image clearer than any puddle or rippling river had ever revealed.

She gasped at what she saw, for surely it could not be her own reflection: a tall, slim but muscular figure, dressed in a glorious gown with crimped hair tumbling about her shoulders, a single braid framing a long, bony face. Truva had only ever caught a few glimpses of herself in her lifetime, and this figure matched none of them. A stranger stared back at her from the glass.

She leaned in closer to see her face in detail. Though it had healed greatly from the weeks of peaceful travel, years of fighting were deeply engraved in her features. Her nose was not quite straight, the left brow bone protruded slightly further than the other, and scars criss crossed her features; and yet she saw her own beauty reflected there, for such were symbols of persistence in the face of unrelenting ruthlessness.

“Do not fear,” said Héodis in a soft voice, squeezing her shoulders gently. “The Eorlingas are perceptive people; they will see you for what lies in your heart, not the evils done unto you.” These words only caused Truva to fear what lay within her heart, however, for she herself did not yet know.

Héodis roused Fulmod from his nap and they reentered the main room just as Éomód returned from the stables. He washed up quickly before putting on an outfit Héodis had selected for him. Éofa stopped by as well, so that they might make an entrance together.

“Well, don’t we all look lovely?” he exclaimed as he took in the collection. “Especially my favorite little nephew,” he added, taking Fulmod up into his arms and pinching his plump cheeks, much to the child’s chagrin.

The five of them ascended the hill as a group, returning to the great hall where Truva had been introduced to the King the day before. They were joined by throngs of Eorlingas whose buzz of enthusiasm for the feast proved infectious.

“Meduseld,” said Éofa as they approached the hall, “Built by Brego, son of Eorl, in the year 2569 of the Third Age. Have you ever seen anything so grand that was built by Man?”

“I cannot say that I have, save perhaps Hornburg,” Truva replied as a new breed of nervousness crept into her heart. The previous day, she had feared that she would not be accepted by her new King, a fear which had not entirely dissipated. The new emotion that coursed through her, however, was born of the fact that not even upon her thousandth fight had she witnessed so many people gathered in one place.

When they entered, her trepidation was instantaneously replaced by sheer amazement at the sights and smells that greeted her. The quiet pensiveness that had hung over the hall the day before was gone, replaced with the glimmering light of torches, the warm press of numerous bodies, and the enticing smell of baking bread and roasting meats. Truva was simultaneously intrigued and overwhelmed.

She did not have much time to consider whether to enter further or run away, however, for their party was immediately spotted by Éomer, who beckoned them toward a table he had staked claim to. He sat just before the dais at the far end of the hall, upon which sat the ornately carved throne of the King, bearing the likeness of many horses racing along golden inlay that traced interwoven patterns from the seat up across the rich mahogany wood of the crest: the _Mearas_ and the golden fields of the Mark.

Already seated at the table beside Éomer was a beautiful young woman and two equally beautiful men, one of whose significantly darker hair stood out from all others.

“Forgive me, Truva, for I nearly failed to recognize you!” declared Éomer as they approached. “You appear as though an entirely different person.” Truva knew not whether to interpret his words as compliment or insult, and Éomer sensed her discomfort, though he was deprived of the opportunity to explain himself, for one of the guests seated at the table spoke then.

“Introduce us, introduce us!” prompted the fairer man, who seemed unable to contain his energy as he bounced in his seat.

“Ah, yes,” said Éomer, still staring at Truva. “Allow me to introduce possibly the most vexing person in all the Mark, the King’s son, my cousin, Théodred.”

“I say!” spoke the man called Théodred, “That is a rather rude, albeit accurate introduction!”

Éomer turned to his other companions as though he had not heard Théodred. “This is my dear sister, Éowyn. Well nigh as beautiful as me, is she not? Lastly, this dark-haired wonder is Gríma, the King’s advisor. No genetic relation, yet he grew up with us and so it would not be amiss to describe him as brother.”

“It is an honor,” said Truva with a bow. Éowyn and Gríma smiled politely, in sharp contrast with Théodred, who laughed openly.

“There is no need to stand upon such ceremony! Come now, let us have a drink,” he said kindly, yet Éomer stayed his arm.

“Only for the others,” he said quietly to his cousin, “She has little experience, I reckon.”

Théodred merely winked in response as he leapt up to collect a few flagons of ale. When he arose, it was suddenly apparent to Truva how incredibly tall this Man was, with arms and legs that, due to their length, did not cooperate. Enthusiasm for his task only served to exacerbate his lack of grace.

As he bounded lankily off, Héodis seated herself with Fulmod in her lap as her husband sat across. Éofa sat amongst his brother, Éomer, and Gríma. Noticing her hesitation, Héodis motioned for Truva to sit between her and Éowyn, for which Truva was thankful; the seat had its back to the wall, so that she might observe without being observed.

Théodred returned promptly, with several flagons grasped perilously in one hand and a great platter of all manner of food in the other. He somehow succeeded in placing the platter deftly in the middle of the table, then used his spare hand to distribute the ale. He placed a mug before Héodis, though she indicated Fulmod before sliding it over to Truva with a twinkle in her eye, intentionally ignoring Éomer’s frowning countenance.

The food and ale before them remained untouched, however, and Truva therefore wisely concluded it best to follow suit. Those around the table chatted contentedly as the hum of anticipation crescendoed to a roar as more villagers poured into the hall. Truva was thankful for the placement of their table, for she could sense people’s curious glances and yet felt a modicum of protection from the wall and her friends about her.

Truva was further distracted from her discomfort by the appearance of half a dozen large dogs, far larger than any of the mutts that wandered the Hidlands, begging for scraps. Those mutts had always ignored Truva, for they knew even they were better fed than she.

“Those dogs—?” Truva wondered, turning to Héodis.

“The King’s pack, greyhounds, deerhounds, and wolfhounds all,” she said, whistling to the closest, a massive deerhound who sniffed her outstretched hand before turning his attention to Truva. He investigated for traces of snacks and, finding none, licked her hand instead. Truva laughed and ran her fingers through the hound’s wiry fur, joyful even when his wagging tail nearly upset the drinks.

The noise in the hall was positively deafening ere Théoden King emerged upon the dais, appearing every bit as regal as when Truva had first met him. Applause overwhelmed the chatter until all had risen to their feet. The King held a hand aloft for silence, then began to address his audience in their own tongue.

Héodis leaned in close to Truva. “He thanks us for joining him on such a momentous occasion, and says that he will be brief, as he is sure we are hungry,” she whispered under her breath, translating the King’s words even as he spoke.

“’It has been several moons since a company of our finest Riders set forth on a peacekeeping mission to the north,’” she continued. “He speaks now of our current situation: ‘As you know, darkness reigns in the east, and the Dunlendings test our borders as ever. It is easy to despair at this news, yet fear not! The danger is not great, and the might of our brave Riders shall never allow harm to befall our beloved Riddermark.’”

Even translated, Truva did not fully understand a great deal of what Héodis said, yet she was content to simply listen to the musical rise and fall of the King’s speech.

“’Therefore, we celebrate this night, reveling in the strength of our lands and the spirit of our people!’ Oh, oh! He is about to give a salute, take your drink!” Héodis urged, handing Truva her tankard.

“To the Mark!” the King suddenly cried in the Common Tongue, raising his glass.

“To the Mark!” The entire hall echoed so loudly Truva could feel the reverberations through the flagstone floor. Truva raised her voice as well and lifted the tankard to her lips, though she did not drink when others took a deep draft. Théodred might be the son of the King, yet something about Éomer’s words set caution in her heart. Moreover, she recalled the terrible effect alcohol had on the free Hidland villagers, and shuddered at the treatment she had suffered as a result.

As soon as they had drunk, Truva’s companions sat and immediately set upon the food, selecting delicacies from the large platter in the middle of the table and transferring each to their own individual plates. She observed the others at first, hesitant and unsure of what was expected or appropriate. Some foods Truva had seen before but never eaten, while others were completely unfamiliar to her. What she had been fed in the Hidlands could hardly even be called scraps: wilted vegetables, mouthfuls of grains, mouldy fruit if she was lucky. Even on the journey to Edoras, the riders had relied solely on what little they could forage quickly.

In comparison, the feast spread out before her was nigh on incomprehensible. Truva nibbled a few mushrooms and carrots, as well as any other foods she was familiar with, though she eyed with suspicion the meats that the others dug into with relish. She had only ever seen meat, usually chicken, from afar, through the bars of her cage.

As the others chatted loudly amongst themselves, Héodis noticed Truva’s hesitation and took it upon herself to heap an assortment of food onto Truva’s plate. “Edoras is not the Hidden Lands, you may eat as you like,” she said. “This is pork, from a pig. The darker meat is beef, or cow, and here it is in a pie. The lighter meat is chicken. This is smoked mackerel, which is a fish – an especial delicacy in our lands for it can only be caught in the sea, not in our rivers.”

Though Truva was familiar with most of the meats, she was thankful for Héodis’ comprehensive explanations, for it was the first time that she tasted each in turn. She found it difficult to keep up with Héodis’ alarming pace, however, and her mouth was so full that she could hardly taste the individual flavors, but Héodis did not interpret Truva’s wide-eyed expression as a sign to slow down. “Fresh bread and butter with honey, and best of all: cheese!” she enthused.

It was at that most fortuitous moment, when Truva’s mouth was impolitely stuffed and Théodred had nearly knocked over a flagon of ale whilst gesticulating wildly to emphasize his narration of some amusing tale, that the King appeared before their table. Truva leapt to her feet out of respect as he greeted the group.

“Hello, my dear son Théodred! I see that you are keeping your company most entertained! Gríma, Éomer, I will never understand how you endure him so. Éowyn, lovely to see you.”

“Hello, uncle!” replied Éowyn.

“Truva, what lovely florals adorn your hair!” said the King, noting the simbelmynë that Héodis had so artfully arranged upon Truva’s head.

“Thank you, your highness,” Truva replied, relieved that he did not remark upon its unusual color or style. “Héodis assured me it would be a symbol of my appreciation for the generosity you have shown me.”

“And so it is, so it is,” smiled the King before turning to the others. “Now, if you would not mind, I should like to have a private conversation with Éomer and our new guest.” The others returned their attention to the food as Truva and Éomer stood and were drawn aside by the King.

“Éomer and I have been conversing,” said Théoden King to Truva, “What plans have you for the future? Do you wish to stay in the Mark, or do you wish to travel to other lands?”

“I do not know, though I have pondered extensively on the subject,” Truva answered honestly. “I imagine someday I should like to travel to new places, yet for the moment I believe it would please me greatest if I were granted permission to remain here.”

“I had hoped you would say so,” the King replied. “Éomer spent untold time commending your reputation as a fighter and your ability to glean new information quickly. I believe it undeniable that Edoras will benefit greatly from your presence among us.

“You are, of course, free to pursue whichever vocation you find most engaging, though it would be false if I did not say we hope you might offer your services in our armed forces. One of our men is to transfer to the East Mark shortly, and you may take his barracks. I think you would make a respectable soldier, should you not find the idea of additional combat disagreeable.”

“On the contrary, it would please me greatly; choosing to fight for a noble nation is in no way comparable to being forced to fight for a master as a slave,” said Truva, who was especially relieved to know that she would no longer be a burden to Héodis and Éomód.

“It is settled, then. Report to headquarters the day after the morrow for your new assignment. We will inform you as soon as your quarters are ready.” With that, the King indicated for Truva to take a seat again. She bowed deeply as he drew Éomer further away, though their conversation was still audible.

“I believe it would be best to keep our new recruit in the capital for now, for there are far more resources here,” the King said to Éomer discreetly.

“I am sure Elfhelm Marshal would be more than capable of guiding her, when I return to my position in the East Mark,” said Éomer, though a hint of regret tinged his words.

“Be that as it may, I expect she would flourish best under your tutelage,” said the King. “I intend to request that Elfhelm maintain his duties in the East Mark, rather than return to Edoras.”

“Considering his enthusiasm upon hearing that assignment when you sent me northward, I do not think he would begrudge you,” said Éomer diplomatically.

“Precisely. I ask that you take command of the King’s forces here in Edoras for the time being, until our new ward is on par with our current recruits.”

“Understood, my lord,” said Éomer, and with that, the King moved to the next table to continue his greetings. Éomer returned to the table and sat beside Truva.

“You are now officially under my protection,” Éomer smiled. “It is tradition that, in such circumstances, a drink would be in order.” Despite his earlier reluctance, he reached past Truva to hand her the tankard of ale Héodis had provided her, then took his own from where it still stood across the table. “To new beginnings!”

“To new beginnings!” repeated Truva, and they touched their glasses together. Truva carefully observed Éomer and drank only as much as he, but upon tasting the foul fluid she nearly spat it out, coughing violently.

“First time drinking ale?” said Éomer, and Truva nodded. “It is powerful!”

“You shall soon get used to it,” said Héodis, and it was then that Truva realized they had all been surreptitiously eavesdropping on her conversation with the King.

“Congratulations!” said Éofa. “It shall be a joy to have you join us in training!”

“To new beginnings,” chimed in Éomód, raising his tankard.

“To new beginnings!” the entire table cheered, and after their toast Truva choked down another, much smaller sip of ale.

“A cider!” exclaimed Théodred, leaping immediately to his feet and dashing off.

“That cousin of ours is nothing but trouble!” Éowyn remarked to Éomer.

“Cider is equally as potent as ale, though it tastes far sweeter. Be cautions,” Éomer warned Truva, for she had been far too occupied with finally tasting the bread and cheese to fully take notice of their comments. When Théodred returned with the cider, she tried it hesitantly and, surprised to be met with the taste of apples, found it far more to her liking than the ale.

Truva continued to eat as the others discussed events that she had no knowledge of around her. Having never had the opportunity to consume so much, she felt full quickly, though she ignored her body’s protests and continued to fill her stomach with all manner of delicious food. She washed it down with the refreshing cider, which somehow made her extremities feel tingly. She could scarcely move due to her overconsumption when Théoden King retook his place upon the dais.

“My friends,” he spoke in the Common Tongue. “We have one last order of business before this wonderful night concludes, and that is of our new neighbor, Truva. Those of you who have not yet met her personally, I am sure you have heard rumor of her. Come here, my dear.”

Truva sat transfixed for a moment before she struggled to her feet. It was somehow more difficult to stand upright than ordinary. She could see a twinkle in Théodred’s eyes, and the scowl had returned to Éomer’s. She unsteadily made her way toward the dais.

“Great tales of her valor and bravery have reached my ears, and though she might seem a foreigner to us, it is my hope that someday she will come to consider the Mark as her own. Please welcome her into your arms as you would welcome any babe born of your brethren.

“Please kneel before me,” Théoden King bade of Truva as he drew his sword. “By the power vested in me, I, Théoden, son of Thengel, born of Fengel of the House of Eorl, as the seventeenth King of the Lands of the Riddermark, hereby declare you a ward of the Mark. May you live among us in peace, and misfortune never touch our borders while you dwell within them.”

With that, King Théoden gently tapped each of her shoulders once with his blade, and the hall burst into applause. “You may now call me your liege,” said the King.

Truva touched her forehead to the floor, though in that very moment her stomach heaved. “My debt to you is unspeakable, my liege,” she spoke, and attempted to compose herself as she arose. Once the King dismissed her, Truva bolted from the hall. It was but a few minutes later that her newfound friends found her around the corner, vomiting all that she had eaten just moments earlier.

“I told you alcohol was not a good idea!” Éomer scolded Théodred.

“She would have been fine had Héodis not fed her everything under the sun! Imagine that, supplying endless meat to one who has rarely, if ever, eaten it before! It is far too rich,” retorted the Prince, moving immediately to Truva’s side and rubbing her back as her body continued to convulse, far too inebriated to notice his touch.

“She would have been fine had you not given her alcohol!” said Héodis, who held a sleeping Fulmod in one hand and held Truva’s unraveling hair back with the other.

“You were the first to supply her with alcohol!” Théodred accused.

“So she could toast properly!” Héodis countered, “Not so she could become obliterated!”

“I think we can agree that we are all at fault, for not having considered all possible outcomes, and for failing to care properly for our new charge,” said Éomód reasonably.

“How could you deny such a pitiable creature all the food she could desire, and a sip of ale to accompany it?” asked Héodis, spinning on her husband.

“She did eat quite a lot,” chuckled Gríma.

“I do agree that a moderate amount of alcohol would not have been out of place,” Éowyn added.

“Exactly! Yet with Théodred, it is never a moderate amount!” quipped Héodis.

“Yes, yes, well, mistakes were made tonight,” said Éofa. “Let us retire, and for goodness’ sakes, get that poor girl some water!”

They all made their way to their respective homes, Théodred following Héodis and company. He and Éomód supported Truva between them, for though the Eorlingas were a tall folk, Truva was still no diminutive figure.

When they arrived at last before the home of Éomód and Héodis, Théodred lingered at the front door, still somewhat indignant that the blame had been placed almost entirely on him, though he grew increasingly apologetic with each passing moment.

“Let me know if I can help?” he said by way of farewell.

“Goodnight, Théodred,” said Héodis, closing the door firmly. She put Fulmod to bed as Éomód forced Truva to drink as much water as she could manage. Together, they got her into bed, placed a bucket within reach in case of emergencies, hoped that she would know what to do with it if necessary, and retired for the night.


	4. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Bruch, Concerto for Clarinet & Viola](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0wYD4MzwUw&ab_channel=BartjeBartmans)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Sochi mountain stream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVxqAYSgh8k&t=233s&ab_channel=%D0%97%D0%B2%D1%83%D0%BA%D0%B8%D0%B8%D0%BC%D1%83%D0%B7%D1%8B%D0%BA%D0%B0%D0%B4%D0%BB%D1%8F%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%BA%D1%81%D0%B0%D1%86%D0%B8%D0%B8)

The next morning, Truva felt as though the world had ended. Never in all her fighting, frostbitten, dehydrated, starved days had she ever felt so awful. Her head felt as if she had lost one thousand consecutive fights by knockout, and her stomach felt as if she had been used as a punching bag by one thousand fighters. The bright sun shining through her window only served to exacerbate her pain.

When she heard Truva rustling in bed, Héodis entered immediately with a steaming bowl of soup and some water. “You must watch out for Théodred, he’s a right scamp,” she admonished quietly as she handed Truva the soup. “Eat this, it will help. Then drink all the water your stomach will hold.”

Truva did as she was ordered, after which she began to feel mildly better. “I am so terribly sorry to have caused you all so much trouble,” she said as she brought her bowl into the kitchen.

“It is no fault of yours; it is impossible to avoid what you are ignorant of. And I must admit I should have been more cautious about the food,” said Héodis. “But you must not say a word to Théodred!”

As if summoned, Théodred entered at that very moment, quietly and rather abashedly.

“How is our ward this morning?” he inquired.

“Rather the worse for wear, I suspect,” replied Héodis, glaring daggers at Théodred.

“I am terribly sorry,” said Théodred with head hung and genuine regret in his voice. “But at least you are up and active already – that is a good sign! And you avoided unloading the contents of your stomach in front of the King, which is an even better sign!”

Truva’s stomach churned at the thought, and Héodis was quick in her reprimand. “How dare you mention such distasteful imagery!” she chided. “Begone, you scoundrel, before you worsen her condition!”

“Ah, very well. Yet the King asked that you report to your new assignment tomorrow rather than today, and I very much believe this is the reason!”

“Out!” Héodis said as loudly as she dared, trying to spare Truva’s pounding head. Théodred obeyed her command, exiting with a sheepish wave.

Truva passed the rest of the day in desperate desire for it to be over, yet the hours seemed endless, prolonged by her inability to sleep; anticipation and anxiety concerning what was to come the following day overwhelmed her. At long last, the sun broke and – with greatly recovered head – Truva prepared for her first day of training.

When Éomer arrived at the house, Truva was just sitting down to breakfast with Héodis as Éomód dealt with a particularly unruly Fulmod in the other room.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked Truva after extending the typical greetings.

“Much improved,” said Truva.

“That is excellent, for I fear today shall not be an easy day,” he replied. “Finish your breakfast quickly, then we shall get started.”

“I have already finished,” said Truva, standing up to clear away her dishes.

“You have hardly started!” cried Héodis.

“I do not believe I can eat any more. I shall have the rest when I return,” said Truva, horrified by the thought of wasting food – something entirely inconceivable to her mere weeks ago.

“Nonsense! I shall set it aside for the dairy cows, they will enjoy it,” said Héodis, determined to be an exemplary host, yet nevertheless considerate of her guest’s strange peculiarities. “Good luck on your first day!”

“Good luck!” called Éomód from the other room.

“Thank you!” Truva shouted to the house in general as she stepped through the door after Éomer. He was rather taciturn as he led her up the hill in the direction of Meduseld, before turning and making his way toward an open arena of neatly raked sand, which was surrounded by row upon row of tiny, uniform dwellings.

“This is the training yard, and the houses are barracks, including the Marshals’ quarters,” he said, indicating a slightly larger building, still of the same utilitarian design, just off to his right.

“You live there?” asked Truva, recalling Éofa’s brief mention of Éomer’s rank.

“One of three, as is Théodred, and another named Elfhelm. Therefore, decorum dictates that you henceforth address each of us with a certain degree of respect. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Truva, suddenly far more sober despite the amusing image that the silly, animated Théodred as a significant military figure conjured.

“Now, the Eorlingas armed forces typically accept recruits but once a year, yet given your potential, and your unusual circumstances, Théoden King deigned to make an exception. There are a great many barriers you must surpass ere you join the current recruits, however – foremost of which is your inability to comprehend the Eorlingas language; our training is conducted in Eorling, for it benefits us to speak in a language our enemies cannot understand.

“You also have no knowledge of weaponry or tactics, and as this year’s recruits have already progressed a great deal through their training cycle, their skills will be far beyond yours. Until you are able to overcome these obstacles and are judged as fit to join the main recruit forces, your training has been tasked to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Truva, careful not to lapse in her manner of respect.

“Very well, then. First, I would like to complete a trial of your basic physical aptitude. This will consist of tests of your muscular strength and running abilities.”

“I understand, my lord,” Truva.

“Let us begin with the latter. Follow my lead,” he said and took off at a slow jog, lapping around the circumference of the arena several times. Truva was incredibly thankful for the comfortable clothes Héodis had lent her that morning, and even more thankful for the long journey out of the north that she had endured, for it was in those days that running had become far easier to her. Even when Éomer increased his speed, departing from the training ground and guiding her this way and that along the paths of the city, she did not falter.

After some time, however, the pace began to wear on her, and it grew more difficult for Truva to lift her legs, more painful to draw air into her lungs. When they had woven throughout all of Edoras, Éomer led her through the gates and circled about the entirety of the outer walls before proceeding along a large river that cut east-west across the land. Truva’s throat grew raw and nothing save dry rasps came when she attempted to clear it, yet she was determined not to disappoint Éomer; no matter how far he went, no matter how fast, she vowed to keep pace.

The Marshal then began to hurtle along the banks of the river, his pace seeming to increase with every stride until he was veritably sprinting. Truva struggled to keep up and gradually fell behind, the distance between them widening with each passing second, and Éomer was several lengths ahead when he finally came to a halt abreast of a scraggly oak tree. Truva pursued at the fastest speed she was capable of, highly distraught; for though Éomer said nothing when she pulled even, Truva could sense his disappointment in her. It was eclipsed only by her own disappointment in herself.

He then led her in a series of stretches before slowly jogging back toward the city, demonstrating to her how to loosen her body as they went. Some movements were ones the Riders had shown Truva on their journey south, others were new to her; though stretching was something the Hidlanders knew nothing of, the feeling of release it gave her muscles made her wish she could show it to those who still remained behind.

“Do you know how to swim?” Éomer asked suddenly, nodding in the direction of the river, which was particularly deep at that point. Truva froze, too terrified to move. Dipping her toes into the first river she had come across was as close as she had ever gotten to swimming.

“I suppose that means no,” Éomer said emotionlessly. “Now, let us begin some simple strength exercises. Here is as good as the training grounds.”

Right beside the river, within shouting distance of the walls of Edoras, Éomer led Truva in a series of movements she was entirely unfamiliar with. All started out easy enough, yet as they increased in number and difficulty, her muscles started to burn and give out one by one. Éomer remained impassive as he concluded the exercises, and merely transitioned to showing her a new series of stretches.

Truva felt unease take root in her heart. This incarnation of Éomer was far different from the kindly Rider she had come to know. His expression gave her no insight as to how well her assessment was proceeding, and she feared she was falling far short of his expectations. When he indicated they should return to the training yard, she followed after him glumly.

Upon their arrival, Théodred and Gríma could be spotted lounged beside the fence that ran along the edges of the yard, chatting cordially. Truva bowed low to them out of respect, though seeing Théodred in person only reinforced the notion that the title of Marshal did not suit him.

“Are you not supposed to be training recruits?” Éomer scolded Théodred lightly.

“We have finished for the day!” boasted Théodred. “And Théoden King suggested that Gríma might come and watch, in order to report how our new ward is faring on her first day.”

Truva felt slightly uncomfortable at the idea of having an audience, though Éomer did not seem to take notice of her unease. “We were just about to begin the second portion of the assessment, so it shall be some time yet,” he said. “You may watch for a while, but do not dally. We’ve business to attend to, and I am sure you do, as well.”

“If you insist!” called Théodred.

“Good luck!” added Gríma.

Éomer turned from their audience and led Truva to the far corner of the training ground, where beneath the roof of a small shed were arrayed all manner of apparatus. He took hold of several – strange contraptions of metal and wood, bars and balls and chains and hoops. He then bade Truva follow as he demonstrated how to use them, pushing and pulling and lifting the objects about the yard. Each time the exercise proved too simple for Truva, he found a way to complicate it, or increase the weight until she was incapable of performing the task altogether.

It was not until Truva had failed at every single exercise that Éomer seemed content at last. As Truva futilely threw her weight against a boulder – unable to move it any further, for her body had grown so exhausted that so much as walking was a challenge – Éomer held a hand aloft and said, “Halt. Now I will show you how to properly store these items, and then we shall proceed with hand-to-hand combat.”

Thoroughly disheartened, Truva longed for nothing more than to throw herself upon the ground and surrender. She would have been savagely beaten had she done so in the Hidlands; even so, that seemed infinitely preferable to her current situation, in which such actions would result in Éomer’s disapproval.

Once all the materials had been stored in accordance with his exacting direction, the Marshal and Truva took a position in the center of the training ground. Théodred and Gríma still sat against the fence, sometimes conversing with each other, sometimes observing Truva’s training, yet never giving any indication of leaving. Their presence still made Truva feel apprehensive, although Éomer continued to pay them little heed.

The Marshal shook his shoulders loose and took a fighting stance, arms up and body shifting rhythmically. Truva mirrored his actions. She began to feel somewhat more at ease, for surely she could impress the inscrutable Éomer with skills she felt most confident in.

“Very well, then. Left hand,” Éomer said, holding up his own left hand as a target for her. Truva struck it with ease. He continued to test her hand strikes before moving onto kicks and grappling, expressionless all the while.

Truva’s confidence began to slip; perhaps all that she had learned in the Hidlands – the skills she had gleaned from years of experience there – were still insufficient, unequal to even the mere fundamental expectations of Eorlingas recruits.

Sweat dripped in rivulets off Éomer and Truva both by the time the Marshal called a halt to her assessment, when the sun had gradually begun to sink into the west over the massive, white-capped mountains. Éomer’s evaluation had extended throughout the entire day, and Truva’s body struggled to remain upright, much in the same way it had when she lost many of her most significant but exhausting fights.

Théodred and Gríma approached from where they had been observing, cheering wildly like silly spectators.

“Most excellent!” enthused Gríma. “I will relay to the King news that our new recruit’s talents far exceed our greatest expectations!”

Truva started, for the advisor’s comments did not match the Marshal’s impassive expression. She looked from one to the other in confusion.

“I should say!” added Théodred. “It shall be the blink of an eye before she outpaces the other recruits; you had best not train her too sedulously, Éomer! She shall put us Eorlingas to shame.”

“Yes, yes, now off you go!” said the Marshal, shooing them back toward Meduseld. As soon as the duo were out of sight, Éomer turned to Truva. She shied away internally, yet managed to stand square before him.

“Impressive for one who spent their formative years in a cage!” he said, his stony countenance suddenly cracking into a smile, thoroughly shocking Truva. She had thoroughly expected to be rebuked, and instead found herself praised.

“You must work on running long distances, and I shall have to teach you how to swim; though I suppose I ought to have known that these were skills you did not possess, especially as I myself observed you entering a large body of water for the first time. Yet there was no need to be so terrified – I would never risk my fighters’ safety, or expect them to be capable of anything I have not personally trained them for.”

Truva, not knowing how to react to this sudden turn in temperament, merely said, “Yes, my lord.”

Éomer laughed. “I know how you must feel, but I must treat all recruits the same. I conduct the same assessment every year, in the same impartial fashion, showing no favoritism or criticism, so that the recruits might demonstrate their skills unimpinged. Please do not be upset.”

“I am not upset, my lord!” said Truva. “I understand perfectly, my lord. No need to explain yourself, my lord.”

“And there is no need to call me ‘my lord’ or any such affectation quite so often,” he said, clearly amused. “I understand your desire to abide by a code of respect, but just once is truly sufficient!”

“Yes, my lord,” Truva replied. With another chuckle, Éomer motioned for her to follow and began to walk toward Héodis and Éomód’s house.

“You performed well today, Truva. Gríma tends to be overenthusiastic, yet he was not entirely incorrect. You have great potential.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Yes, well, it might behoove you to reserve your thanks until training has begun in earnest,” he replied with a wink as they entered the house, where the delicious aroma of baking food reached them. Enlivened by the scent, Éomer roared, “What smells so good?”

“Vegetable pie!” Héodis roared back. Éofa and Éomód were there, helping set the table as Fulmod played on a blanket spread upon the floor.

“We have decided it would be best to reduce the amount of meat we consume in this household until Truva has fully adjusted to the Eorlingas diet,” explained Éomód.

“Oh dear, but our ferocious recruit needs meat to gain strength!” Éomer complained.

“You speak not out of concern for the recruit, but from your own greed for meat!” accused Héodis.

“I do believe I must admit my guilt at this charge!” laughed Éomer as he took a seat at the table, encouraging Truva to do the same. “Come, rest. You have had a trying day,” he said, and soon the whole party was seated around the table, exchanging food and tales.

“So what is our Truva to expect on the morrow?” asked Éomód during a lull in the conversation.

“Tomorrow we start with weapons,” replied Éomer. “At first a staff, and then we shall see how she fares. If she has as much competency in weaponry as she has demonstrated in other skills thus far, we shall promptly move to spear, then sword, and bow.”

“Ah, my memories are returning,” said Éomód. “It has been so long since Éofa underwent training – complaining all the while! – that I can hardly recall the process.”

“You might recall better if you had ever cared in the first place!” retorted Éofa.

“That is not an unfair accusation,” laughed Éomód. “I only ever did concern myself with your horses!”

The rest of the evening passed in similar joviality, and soon the next day saw Truva’s return to the training yard. All expectations as to her competency, however, vanished immediately. From the very first instant, Truva exhibited absolutely no natural proficiency with the staff, and regardless of how dispassionate he strove to appear, the mounting frustration that emanated from Éomer as he drilled her repeatedly on the simplest of techniques was very much real.

So much as being shown the proper grip for the staff rendered Truva uncoordinated and off balance; the weapon felt unnatural in her hands, and her body moved clumsily through the series of motions Éomer demonstrated. Truva’s hands were always too high or too low, her distance too near or too far, her staff at an incorrect angle, and her feet tripping over themselves as they stepped in unfamiliar patterns.

Truva had not struggled so greatly even as a child in the Hidlands, for when she first underwent training there were no solidified patterns to override. Even so, she had by no means been a naturally talented fighter; and now her inherent deficiencies were exacerbated by the fact that, in learning new skills, she was forced to ignore years of training – habits so deeply ingrained they had become intuition.

When Éomer squared off with her to work through the stances together, so that she might better understand the reasoning behind the finer details, Truva’s incompetence grew even more pronounced. Each repetition brought a new failure, which often resulted in painful consequences, and Truva quickly lost count of the number of times her knuckles were rapped by Éomer’s staff when her positioning was inexact. Though he was gentle, her hands swiftly grew sore, especially when compounded with the blisters that were beginning to form on her palms.

After Truva sustained a rather shocking strike to the head, having gotten lost in the patterns and thus failed to defend herself in time, Éomer lowered his staff and heaved a sigh. The sun had long ago sunk below the horizon, and they struggled to see as they labored in the deepening purple dusk.

“I prefer to conclude training upon at least one successful completion of the forms,” said the Marshal resignedly, “Yet I suspect if we delay until then, we shall be here all through the night, and quite possibly the next day, and perhaps even some time after that.”

Truva hung her head. “I have disappointed you.”

Éomer took the staff from her hands and drew her away from the training ground, in the direction of Meduseld. “On the contrary, it would do no good to the Eorlingas pride if you proved superior in weaponry in addition to close quarters combat. Each man has his own deficiencies, and while some are more easily overcome than others, we shall see what can be done with yours. You might ride a horse properly and draw a bow with confidence yet!”

As he spoke these words, Éomer shoved aside the doors to a hall that sat between the Marshals’ barracks and the stables, facing Meduseld. “The armory,” he said by way of explanation. He lit a lamp that hung upon a ceiling beam, and it threw light across the vast display of wares arrayed there. Truva looked with astonishment upon the stacks of breastplates gleaming in the feeble light, the piles of chainmail, the staves and helmets and knives and every other accessory to war imaginable.

“Training equipment is stored to the left,” said Éomer, indicating lockers of wooden weapons and all manner of padding. He handed the staves to Truva, and she placed them with the others, and they reemerged into the night. They did not speak until they bade each other goodnight, when Éomer turned toward the Marshals’ barracks and Truva continued on alone to the home of Éomód and Héodis, immersed in gloomy thought.

A similar pattern continued for several weeks. Truva would rise early, train from sunrise to sundown with Éomer, and conclude each day feeling no more accomplished than she had in the morning. Her days were awash with frustration and swollen, split knuckles and bruised foreheads; she lost count of how often she forgot the steps Eomer had taught her, or how often he effortlessly struck the weapon from her hands. It was clear to all that there would be no moving on from the staff any time soon.

One night when she went to bed feeling particularly defeated, Truva was transported back to the Hidlands, back to the first time she ever won a fight after so many losses, only to be followed by yet another string of failures. A body can grow accustomed to unceasing disappointment, she thought, yet it was far, far worse to grasp at a faint trace of hope, only for it to be extinguished all too soon.

Despite Truva’s best attempts to muffle her tears, Héodis heard her crying as she rose to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. She knocked softly on Truva’s door, slipping in when sudden stillness was the only response. She took a seat at the edge of Truva’s bed.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked. When Truva did not answer, she continued, “Does your home here not suit you?”

“It could never be that!” Truva exclaimed, sitting up suddenly.

“Then what?” Héodis pried gently.

“I am so afraid I shall disappoint everyone, including myself,” she sobbed quietly. She was ashamed of the weakness and tears she could not contain, yet despite her desire to appear strong, the thought of all those who had supported her suddenly turning their backs terrified her. She thought of Héodis and Éomód, who have been so kind, as well as Éomer and Éofa, who were the first to take her in. And of course the King! Thinking of their discontent in her redoubled her misery.

Héodis wrapped Truva tightly in her arms. “Oh, Truva, I cannot imagine how much you must have suffered in the past, or how hard it must have been to leave all you knew behind, regardless of how much you despised it. You are incredibly brave, and powerful in ways I do not think you know. I hope one day you will be able to see yourself as I do – as we all do.”

She tucked Truva back in and lay down upon the bedspread beside her, to serve as a protective presence throughout the night; and while she strove to stay alert until Truva slept, quiet snores soon emanated from her lips as Truva continued to shift restlessly.

Soothed by the sound of Héodis’ breathing, Truva eventually slipped into a fretful slumber. A dream visited her, though they were uncommon to her. The details were so lifelike that at first Truva struggled to determine whether she was waking or sleeping, until the fog that blurred the edges of the dream into obscurity convinced her it was the latter.

At first, all she could see was the swath of grassy fields that lay beyond the gates of Edoras, and all that was not illuminated by the moon fell beyond her vision. A pleasant, warm breeze swept across the plains, gently rustling the stems of switchgrass and bluestem and lifting their earthy scent into the air. Truva could feel it tumbling through her hair, and yet she simultaneously did not exist in that space at all.

Softly across the distance came the sound of hooves approaching. Truva turned to see a most magnificent white stallion approaching from some distance away, so majestic in bearing that lesser Kings would surely be ashamed to ride it. The horse slowed to a trot and snorted, signaling a sense of approval.

Truva then felt a compulsion to turn round once more, and she realized the horse was not approaching her but instead a figure swathed in grey, clutching a staff and bent ever so slightly that his face lay in the shadow of his enormous, wide-brimmed hat. The man held out his hand as the stallion approached, and the horse extended his nose to the wrinkled palm, and they greeted each other in a mutual, unspoken language. Quite suddenly, the figure mounted and the pair spun about, disappearing into the black, swirling mist.

Truva awoke in an instant, and could have sworn she heard the beat of hooves upon the earth before the world melted back into the silence that reigned in the darkest hours of night.


	5. Lessons in History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Elgar, Serenade for Strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbuowIo54mw&ab_channel=AltoClef), and [Stamitz, Viola Concerto No. 1 in D Major: I. Allegro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbUeYnQRQGg&ab_channel=HariolfSchlichtig-Topic)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Cozy cabin rainstorm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFRSOtoNTgs&t=24471s&ab_channel=CalmedByNature)

When Truva awoke the next morning, Héodis was already about, making breakfast in the kitchen with Fulmod, who had surprisingly arisen without his usual temper tantrum. “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked as Truva entered the kitchen.

“Improved,” Truva said, short in word but not in heart. She still felt quite unsettled by the disastrous start to her training regimen, as well as her inscrutable dream; even so, she was overcome by renewed determination as she made her way to the training yard. It was undeniable that her skills would never rival the legendary warriors that had passed through the halls of the Eorlingas, little though she knew of them, yet neither could she resign herself to surrender. There was nothing else to do save commit herself entirely to training, regardless of how slow her progress might be or how disillusioned she caused those who watched over her to feel. Truva would think only of becoming a warrior they could be proud of in the future.

A full day of drilling the same staff forms she had previously learned tested Truva’s new resolve greatly; nor did the training prove any more successful, and contrarily often felt worse. The following day showed little improvement, as did the next, and the next. Overwhelmed by an acute sense of inadequacy, it was the memory of the Hidlands, and the tiny victories that had come after incessant, crushing defeat that motivated Truva’s perseverance – for if she could endure there, she could certainly endure in the Riddermark.

After the conclusion of yet another disheartening session, Truva sat slumped on the ground by the fence of the training yard, her back propped up against a post. Her padding and gear lay scattered about her where she had discarded it, lacking the strength to organize it neatly as she attempted to mentally and physically recover from Éomer’s unrelenting onslaught. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Théodred emerge from Meduseld, and watched his lanky figure approach from a distance until he stood directly before her.

“My goodness, it looks as though you have had a rough time of it today!” he said cheerfully. Truva did not reply. She did not have the energy to. Théodred did not seem to mind her reticence as he collected her staff and padding, saying only, “The King requests your presence.”

Truva rose wearily to her feet and held out her arms to accept her gear, which she knew to be sweaty and reeking, yet Théodred refused to return it, merely walking off in the direction of Meduseld as Truva followed slowly after.

When they entered the dim evening interior of Meduseld, Théoden King sat not upon his throne, but instead beside one of the long dining tables, entirely preoccupied with a wolfhound who was begging for his ears to be rubbed. So absorbed was he in this crucial task that the King failed to look up even as the two approached close.

“Take a seat, take a seat!” he said casually, still indulging the creature. “I do believe we Eorlingas would have been known for our hounds were we not so renowned for our horses.”

Truva remained standing as Théodred sat upon a bench directly behind his father, promptly placing Truva’s padding on the table and stealing the wolfhound’s attention away from the King.

“Why is it that you wished to see me?” asked Truva.

“Ah, yes,” said the King, turning at last to the pair. “I have done a great deal of thinking regarding your circumstances lately. You see, children in the Mark are brought up freely and with exposure to a wide variety of experiences, so that they might discover which activities and occupations are best suited to their individual proclivities. It is through these endeavors that they gain a vast breadth of insight and knowledge, thus building a more robust society – yet it is my understanding that you have been deprived of such opportunities in the past.”

“That is not an inaccurate assumption,” said Truva.

“As my ward, I see fit to make amends for that which you have been denied. Already you have begun your training under Éomer, yet I would not stop there; I have spoken with my advisor, Gríma, and he has agreed to instruct you in the social arts: history, geography, politics, writing. It would please me greatly if Théodred would assist him, if for no greater purpose than to refresh his own knowledge.” The King gave his son a meaningful glance at these words, though Théodred feigned complete absorption in loving his hound.

Théoden King continued, “Upon request, Éomód said he would be delighted to expound upon your knowledge of horses, as well, and upon hearing said request made, Héodis demanded that she be included,” he chuckled quietly. “She will work with my head chef to ensure you have the ability to prepare food in a proper kitchen, not just the field.

“Finally, and perhaps most significantly: our language. Many of our people speak the Common Tongue – especially our soldiers – for long have we been allies to our neighboring Gondor, where my father spent much of his life. To ease your time here, however, I believe it would be best were you to learn the language of the Mark: Eorling. Quite frankly, even to those who do speak the Common Tongue with any degree of fluency, our language is far preferable. This task I have left to my sister-daughter, Éowyn. What say you?” he asked.

A moment lapsed during which Truva, stunned by the King’s generosity, struggled to find her voice. At last she stuttered, “It would be an honor, yet would it not be an inconvenience to those tasked with my education?”

“I think you will find that your presence here is more blessing than burden to us, and it is no more than what we would do for any new addition to our number,” the King reassured her tenderly.

“If that be the case, I thank you and all who would teach me for their unparalleled kindness.”

The King laughed loudly at her words. “I do not believe I have ever met any other so polite as you! Nevertheless, you must be tired. I see you have already been through your training this day,” he said, turning an eye to the equipment that lay upon the table. “Go now and rest; you shall be sent for when your lessons are to begin.”

“Thank you, thank you, your highness,” said Truva, bowing deeply. Théodred stood then as well, snatching the gear before Truva could pick it up and once more refusing to relinquish it to her, and together they departed Meduseld.

“You know,” said Théodred contemplatively as he fiddled with the straps of Truva's shin guards. “History and such things are not my forte.”

“You need not worry,” laughed Truva, “I do not have great expectations, most of all for myself.”

“Ah, that is not my meaning,” he replied. “It is simply that in speaking with Éowyn, she expressed to me her weakness in Eorling, having grown up in the King’s household and speaking none save the Common Tongue. She agreed to assist only because she is fond of you, and desired to please the King.” What Théodred failed to mention then to Truva was that the King had in actuality tasked his son with making said request; yet in coveting the job for himself, Théodred had instead inquired as to whether Éowyn might be willing to undertake a different responsibility.

“Is that so?” said Truva, feeling vindicated in her perception that the King’s requests had been burdensome to those he had placed them upon.

“She truly does wish to help!” Théodred reassured her. “The two of us merely concluded it would best if Éowyn were to supplement your lessons with Gríma on writing in the Common Tongue, and I took charge of your Eorling education. History in and of itself is quite a task for Gríma; I would be easing his responsibilities, and I happen to be far more proficient in Eorling than I will ever be in history!”

“Do you not suppose it will require too much effort from you, to assist both in Eorling as well as history, in addition to your other duties?” asked Truva.

“Gríma is more than adept enough to take full control of your history lessons on his own; my input will be limited. I will merely be present, if only to please my father,” he scowled comically, yet was quick to smile again. He glanced up then, and saw that they had arrived before Héodis and Éomód’s home.

“I now leave you in good hands!” he said, waving to her as his figure faded into the darkness, and Truva entered the cozy kitchen with a renewed sense of contentment and anticipation.

Héodis alone greeted Truva with typical enthusiasm and a hearty dinner, for Éomód still remained at the stables. “I heard you are to begin lessons soon,” she prompted as they sat at the table, Fulmod playing around in her lap. Truva gave the toddler a few funny faces and a tickle before turning to her meal.

“And I heard you insisted on being included in those lessons!” said Truva playfully.

“How could I not? I shall miss you desperately when you move out, which is sure to be soon. And I am the best household cook in Edoras, after all; it is only natural that I assist,” she said with no trace of humility, though she needed it not, for her words were not incorrect.

“Say,” Héodis continued thoughtfully, in a tone not entirely dissimilar from Théodred’s a few moments earlier, “It is also my understanding that you are to learn of writing from Gríma and Éowyn.”

“It never ceases to astound me how quickly you obtain information,” laughed Truva. “I only just heard the news myself! And yet it is so; why do you ask?”

“Might I not also learn? I needn’t attend the lessons themselves – lest I distract from your own focus – yet perhaps you might relay what you have learned to me? I was afforded a great many opportunities as a child, yet I took so quickly to cooking that I did not pursue anything else for long. Very few Eorlingas choose to indulge in the written arts as it is, for they serve very little practical use in our daily lives, and they are disdained even by many of our greatest advisors; even to Gríma they were nothing more than a mere labor of passion.

“Yet I have heard that the few written records he has gathered detail Eorlingas history thoroughly, and it is therefore reasonable that you become capable of exploring these annals on your own, not having learned the stories naturally through your upbringing in the way most Eorlingas have. As for me, I simply desire to learn something new, something that I might share with my son one day,” said Héodis, giving Fulmod’s hair an affectionate brush.

“I see,” said Truva with a smile, contemplating her friend’s proposal. “I suppose that repeating all that I have learned might prove an excellent way for me to retain the material!” she added, and thus the enthusiastic spirit for education was transmitted to yet another student, and they vowed to always aid one another in their studies.

It was hard upon this conversation, before Truva so much as began the lessons themselves, that the King’s Rider departed for the East Mark and his vacated accommodations became available to Truva. She still had no possessions of her own, and so preparing to leave her temporary home with Éomód and Héodis took but a moment; yet though they would be separated by no more than a few minutes’ walk, the minimal work was slowed by the fact that all parties felt terribly disheartened at the idea of parting.

The evening after the Rider’s withdrawal, Éomer bade Truva to return to the training ground once she had stowed her gear in the armory. He then guided her through the array of identical barracks toward a tiny house near the northern end of the field, two rows back. “Our new recruits typically share quarters,” he said as they stood before the entrance of the residence. “Yet as you are currently the only female amongst our ranks, a few concessions had to be made.”

The straw roof of the house was so steep it appeared to be an inverted V, the ends nearly brushing the ground. When Éomer opened the door, Truva observed a single room beyond, with a tiny bed in the far left corner, at the foot of which stood a modest trunk. There was a stove also, and tucked among the shelves beside it was a fine array of produce and cookery. On the wall opposite the door was a window, and though the view through the glass was primarily obscured by the roof of the building in the rear, from a certain angle the grasslands beyond the city walls could be glimpsed. All in all, Truva found it difficult to contain her enthusiasm for her new abode.

There was a far greater surprise waiting for her when she entered, however. Folded upon the trunk was the burgundy dress Héodis had lent her to wear at the banquet, in addition to numerous training uniforms. A particularly fine set of silver armor was set beside the trunk, as well, entirely unadorned yet as practical as the uniforms.

Upon a low table in the middle of the room lay an elegantly folded paper. When Truva opened it, she saw what she could only assume to be the clean, flourishing script of the King. Still ignorant of the written language, Truva could not fathom what was written upon the page; she therefore folded the paper and stowed it safely beneath the burgundy dress, determined to decipher it later when she became more knowledgeable.

“By way of the King,” said Éomer, motioning to the letter and supplies, amused to see Truva in such a state of awe. “Save, of course, the dress; you have Héodis to thank for that.”

He hesitated a moment then, reaching out to brush his fingertips across the burgundy fabric. “And I— I would like to apologize for what I said at the banquet, as I do believe it was upsetting. You looked truly resplendent in this gown, with your hair unbraided. I was merely so shocked at the transformation that the words escaped my mouth unheeded.”

“Your apology is unnecessary; I know you meant no ill,” said Truva. An uncomfortable silence fell between them then, and Éomer shifted in place, swiping his foot across the well-worn wooden boards of the floor in the manner that many grapplers were wont to do. “Well, I’ve recruits to attend to,” he said by way of explanation before turning and fleeing out the door.

Feeling flustered, Truva gazed after him for some time, suddenly swept up in the realization she was the most alone she had ever been. A deep quiet fell about her, and while the stillness was unnerving, it was simultaneously soothing. “I could easily grow accustomed to this,” Truva muttered to herself as she moved about the room, examining every nook and cranny before preparing a simple meal for her dinner, out of habit producing far too much for any single person to eat in one sitting.

Unforgivably early the next morning, Théodred had hardly knocked at the door of the tiny house before he bounded inside with a large gathering of simbelmynë in hand. “Ah, I see you are settling in already!” He said cheerfully, upon finding Truva at the table for breakfast.

“What is your purpose here, so early in the morning?” Truva asked as she righted the chair she knocked over, having bolted to her feet when startled by Théodred’s unexpected appearance. Her mind reeled from sudden shock and lack of sleep, for every unpredictable creak and shadow in her new house had prevented her from getting a good night’s rest, and she had surrendered to her sleeplessness and risen in the wee hours of the morning, before the sky had even grown light.

“These are for you!” Théodred declared, handing Truva the alabaster flowers. “Simbelmynë is not the typical nosegay one profers when an acquaintance moves into a new household, yet they suited you so well at the banquet that I could not possibly consider offering any other blossom.”

He extricated a flagon from Truva’s cupboards and filled it with water as he spoke, then plucked the flowers from her bewildered hands and arranged them with aplomb. He then set the peculiar vase upon the table where Truva sat observing his actions wordlessly.

“Well, I do believe it is time for your first history lesson!” a particularly chipper Théodred declared, promptly marching Truva from her new accommodations and toward Meduseld without allowing her to so much as finish her breakfast.

Théoden King was already present in the hall, engaged in discussion with several of his advisors, and Truva bowed deeply before them as she approached. “My liege,” she said to the King, with particular emphasis on the first word. It was with no small amount of joy that she finally felt a sense of belonging among the Eorlingas.

“My dear Truva, welcome. Do you find your accommodations to your liking?” asked the King, a warm smile upon his face.

“Not even in my dreams had I ever believed I might one day live so comfortably,” she replied. “And I thank you for your gifts; it is with pride that I shall wear such well-crafted uniforms in training.”

“Ah, I do wish I could boast of my generosity, yet it is nothing more than what we provide for all Eorlingas recruits,” said the King.

“Then you are truly generous to your subjects.”

“I should like to think so,” said the King, and his eyes twinkled especially then. “Now, I shall not keep you longer – off to your studies!” And as the King turned back to the waiting advisors, Théodred took Truva’s elbow and led her toward an alcove lit by the rising sun.

“And yet,” he whispered as they walked, “As unadorned as it is, I have yet to see any recruit receive such a fine suit of armor in all my time in the forces!”

Seated upon a bench in the alcove was Gríma, thoughtfully stroking a brindle greyhound, who appeared to be quite enjoying the affection. The attention of the King’s advisor was wholly absorbed by the library of books and papers strewn haphazardly about him, though he looked up in anticipation when Truva and Théodred drew near.

“Come, come!” he said, motioning to a place on the bench beside him. Théodred promptly took this seat, though Gríma jokingly shoved him away with his foot. “Not you, oaf! I was speaking to Truva! Do you expect our new pupil to sit across from me and read a map upside down?”

“On the contrary, I thought she would sit across from us and that _you_ might read the map upside down!” said Théodred, feigning hurt with a comical pout but nevertheless taking a seat opposite. Truva sat at Gríma’s side and took over his duty of petting the greyhound.

“Now,” Gríma began to explain as he drew said map toward himself, shooting Théodred a lecturing look as he extricated the paper from the prince’s inquisitive hands, “The history of the Mark alone is long and complex, yet it is also entangled with many other lands with which I expect you have almost no familiarity. I will begin by explaining the distribution of Middle Earth and the various peoples that dwell in it, before proceeding to focus on the interactions and conflicts that occurred between them.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Truva concurred as she poured over the map, covered as it was in strange marks she did not understand. The sharp points must be mountains, she surmised, surrounded by forests of tiny circular trees; the long, jarred lines that traversed vast blank spaces appeared to be rivers leading to the sea, whereas the straighter lines could possibly be roads, like the one the Riders had followed upon her initial approach to Edoras. Truva relayed her guesses to Gríma.

“Precisely!” he praised, and though it was with sudden realization he saw his pupil lacked even the most basic fundamentals of education, he noted that her ability to comprehend was not to be underestimated. “Can you read what is written here?” He pointed to indecipherable symbols near the middle of the map.

“Even the most educated person in the Hidden Lands does not read or write,” said Truva, scarcely glancing at the letters.

“Not dissimilarly, Eorlingas rely almost exclusively on verbal communication to convey information, and on oral tradition to pass down stories,” said Gríma. “And while a great amount of our conjunctive history with Gondor has been recorded in their extensive annals, the responsibility of reading that literature, as well as chronicling our own accounts, falls entirely upon those advisors of the Mark who demonstrate even the slightest modicum of interest in such things.”

“And you are one of those advisors, as I have come to understand,” said Truva, with a glance toward Gríma.

“I, too, know how to read!” Théodred interjected, rather petulantly.

“That is because you took an inexplicable interest in the written language as a boy, and demanded that I teach you!” laughed Gríma. “Though I have yet to see you put such knowledge to any use.”

“I mention it merely so that I might prove to be yet one more resource to our inquisitive recruit,” said Théodred with a shrug.

“I greatly appreciate any and all assistance you offer,” said Truva to Théodred, and he rapped his knuckles upon the table with enthusiasm as Gríma scoffed.

“See,” beamed Théodred, “She appreciates my assistance!”

“Let us regain our focus,” said Gríma with a mockingly exasperated sigh before turning back to the map. “The area I indicated earlier, here, is the Riddermark. Edoras is here, at the base of the White Mountains and the head of the river Snowbourn.”

“That must have been the river Éomer led me along during my training assessment,” Truva hazarded.

“That is correct. To the south—“

“Show her the Hidden Lands!” Théodred interrupted suddenly, unapologetic. It was with genuine exasperation that Gríma sighed this time, though he was forced to admit that Théodred’s suggestion was not wholly unreasonable. He scanned the map, searching for that which could not be found.

“The Hidlands, as they say, are not demarcated on this map, for they were entirely unknown at the time of its making and continue to remain mysterious to this day. Based on the reports made by Éomer and his men upon their return, I suspect the Hidlands are located somewhere around this area, far in the north, toward the Ettenmoors among the Misty Mountains – perhaps just south of Mitheithel and the Angmar Mountains.”

This statement caused both Théodred and Gríma to fall silent and introspective as they gazed at the location Gríma indicated.

“What does that mean?” asked Truva, disturbing their ruminations.

“The realm of Angmar has long been marked by brutal wars and malevolent rulers,” Gríma mused. “As perturbing as it is to say, slave fighters are likely one of the least barbaric affronts to Mankind in that region,” he mused.

There was another lull in the conversation before Gríma continued with his initial narration. “As I was saying, to the south of our land lies Gondor, the great kingdom of Men, and our allies. Its capital is Minas Tirith, here, known to us as Mundburg and guarded by Denethor II who took Stewardship in the year 2984…”

As he rattled off information, Truva strove to commit as much of it as possible to memory, though attempting to find connections within the endless stream of unfamiliar names and dates was like searching for a path in a blizzard whiteout. Truva was thankful when the oration came to an abrupt halt.

She glanced up, expecting to see Gríma assessing whether or not she still listened, but instead found his attention elsewhere. Truva followed his line of sight, noting that Éowyn had presently entered the Hall and was making her way directly toward the table where they sat studying.

“Good morn! Devoting ourselves to our edification, I see,” she laughed, observing Théodred’s glazed eyes staring blankly beyond the window, daydreaming.

“It is good fortune to have a dedicated pupil, for once,” said Gríma with a nod in the direction of Truva, though his gaze was suddenly anywhere save upon Éowyn, and he shuffled maps pointlessly about the table.

“You are in luck,” said Éowyn to Truva. “Aside from the King, Gríma is the most knowledgeable historian among us, and I suspect he is more meticulous even than a great many of Gondor’s record keepers!”

Truva watched curiously as Gríma blushed and mumbled denials at Éowyn’s words.

“Ah, but I do not envy your task, Truva, for though we shall soon be writing together, books bore me rather! I would far prefer to be outside, with the sun above me and my horse’s hooves flying below,” she quipped, then bade the trio good luck and goodbye before strolling over to greet her uncle and his advisors.

Gríma struggled to regain his focus then, and his hands trembled slightly as he pointed out a different region on the map. “The area— the area of Dunland… has a history entangled with our own…” he stammered, though it was clear to Truva that he had lost all concentration, and was failing quite spectacularly in his attempts to be subtle as he observed Éowyn from across the hall.

When the King’s niece moved toward the exit, Gríma leapt up abruptly, startling Truva. He began to fold the map, though in his distracted state it took several tries, saying, “I believe— believe that is more than enough for one day. Here, take this and study it thoroughly at home. I will drill you on the location of various lands during our next lesson.” Gríma handed Truva the improperly folded map before collecting his books into his arms, dropping more than he picked up in his rush. He then dashed off after Éowyn, leaving behind quite a few of his materials and a thoroughly befuddled Truva.

“So, what do you think?” Truva turned her gaze from the retreating figure of Gríma to see Théodred regarding her intently, as though he had been paying rapt attention throughout the lesson rather than lost in his own thoughts. He did not take his eyes from her, even when she did not answer his question immediately.

“History is far more complicated than I expected,” Truva replied at last, looking down at the map in her hands, “Though I did not ever suppose it to be easy.”

“Never mind history!” exclaimed Théodred dismissively. “I was referring to Gríma and Éowyn.”

“I do not believe I understand,” said Truva, her eyes turning once more to Théodred’s animated expression.

Théodred raised his eyebrows and paused, waiting for recognition to sink in. When the quizzical look on Truva’s face did not falter, he burst out, “Love!”

“Love?” said Truva.

“Well, perhaps love is an overstatement,” Théodred acknowledged, “Yet I am certain there is some notion of interest between the two!”

“I haven’t much experience with such emotions,” Truva replied. Théodred peered at her inquisitively, and though she refused to meet his eyes, Théodred’s ingenuous nature somehow urged her to speak further, and she did not resent his curiosity. “Love is a luxury not afforded to those of the Hidlands. I believe the free villagers are too mean to truly love.”

“And what of the slaves, if you do not mind my asking?” His voice was reserved, inviting rather than demanding Truva to speak, and she was overcome then by an unfamiliar loquacity.

“On the very rare occasion, the most successful of fighters are allowed to cohabitate, in the owners’ hopes that they might produce an offspring with the potential of becoming a superior fighter. These lodgings are somewhat superior to the Fighters’ Quarters, therefore some fighters even feign attraction, so that they might live in better conditions.” Truva observed her fingernails far more closely than necessary as she said these words. “Unless both fighters belong to the same owner, however, such arrangements typically result in contention over possession of said offspring, so it is not common.”

“…And yourself?” asked Théodred, his voice falling so low it was a veritable whisper.

“I was never afforded the opportunity, even if I had wished to take it. I was so young when my owner isolated me from the Fighters’ Quarters – at first, for fear I would lose my focus, then later that I should gain it.”

“That is abhorrent,” the prince said, halfway disbelieving that people could be so cruel.

“Well!” Truva said cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood with a smile, “I suppose it worked out in the end. I did not lose focus, nor did I have any concern for leaving behind loved ones in the process of freeing myself.” Théodred was rightfully unconvinced by her false enthusiasm, though any response he might have made was interrupted by loud arguing, for the King and his advisors appeared to vehemently disagree upon some issue.

Seeing Théodred and Truva disturbed by the advisors’ argument, King Théoden gestured for the duo to join them. The group was clustered about a curious object set upon the table, and all peered at it inquisitively: a gleaming black orb, approximately the size of a large man’s two fists put together. When Truva looked closer, she could see a faint, stirring glow within.

“Do you know what this is?” asked the King.

“A palantír!” gasped Théodred.

“Precisely! A Seeing Stone, of which few remain in Middle Earth. We believe it to be the Stone of Annúminas of Arnor, lost in the snowy realms of the north long ago. We heard rumors of its resurfacing near the Angmar Mountains, and in a bout of good fortune, our Riders that were sent to obtain it returned with not one, but two treasures,” said Théoden King, with a surreptitious wink at Truva.

“What is its purpose?” she asked, in part to hide her pleasure at being referred to so kindly by the King, and in part to being genuinely intrigued by the Stone’s captivating sleekness.

“A palantír allows the holder to see or communicate from afar. Our hope had been to observe the strife that plagues our borders, and thus move more swiftly to counteract the damage that is being done there,” explained the King.

“Unfortunately,” continued one of his advisors, “We cannot see a thing – the palantír is perfectly impenetrable to us.”

“As the Stone was found in your region, we were hoping you might have greater luck than us in unlocking its secrets,” said the King to Truva. She eyed the Stone bemusedly, unsure of how a slave might be met with more success than a King. Seeing the doubt in her face, he persuaded, “Any attempt is worthwhile, however unlikely, as we have tried every other recourse. It cannot hurt you, and can only serve to benefit us.”

Truva saw the logic in his argument, so she approached the glassy orb and looked deep into its depths. The light within reminded her of a golden fish drifting languidly in a black pool.

“Very good,” said Théoden King. “Now stand here and place your hands thus, around the globe. Do not look into the palantír; try instead to look _past_ it, to what lies beyond.”

Truva strove to follow the King’s instructions, for she longed to please him, yet she knew her efforts would be fruitless. All she could perceive was a darkness that gradually overtook her sight, obscuring her vision of the hall and its occupants. She neither saw nor felt anything else, not even when she attempted to look beyond, in the way the King had described.

She continued to peer through the darkness halfheartedly when her eyes were suddenly blinded by a flash of pure white light. A jolt of energy coursed through her as it had the time lightning struck her cage during a storm back in the Hidlands. She involuntarily leapt back from the palantír as her whole body shook.

“What? What is it?” cried the King. The entire gathering leaned forward in anticipation.

“Nothing, just darkness and light,” said Truva, still shaking her stinging hands. The tingling sensation in her extremities began to transform into a dull feeling of utter exhaustion that seeped throughout her entire body, reaching to her very core; she was overcome by the irresistible urge to close her eyes and sleep in the very spot where she stood before Théoden King.

“Ah, well. That is more than any of us saw,” said the King. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“I am sorry I could not be of more use,” said Truva, the tiredness audible in her voice.

“There is nothing to be done, and it is certainly not from lack of trying,” the King reassured her as he patted her gently on the shoulder.

“Let us go find some sustenance,” injected Théodred then. “It is well past noon and you have not eaten since breakfast.”

“And I hardly ate breakfast in the first place,” Truva muttered. As they exited the Hall, the pair could still faintly hear the King consulting his advisers.

“It is ultimately of no use to us. I think it will serve us better as the alternative.”

“I agree. It is high time we send it to Saruman as a peace offering. He is our last defense against the Dunlendings, and it would behoove us to garner his support.”

“We ought to send it with Gríma as an additional sign of our goodwill; he might consult with Saruman and bring about a mutually beneficial—”

Though Truva longed to hear more of the workings of the King and his council, an uninterested Théodred shut the vast doors of the Hall without a moment’s hesitation.


	6. The Picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Dvořák, String Quartet No. 12 in F major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_b_rwtDlUXA&ab_channel=Vanguarde12)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Rain on a tent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVBMp6QcK_I&ab_channel=CozyRain)

Despite the King's determination, all thought of sending Gríma on any mission seemed to vanish as if borne off on a wind, for there were no further whispers of discussion and Gríma remained as ever in Edoras. In the meantime, Truva's lessons were held with increasing frequency and intensity, and she often felt inundated by the tidal wave of unfamiliar information at first, yet as she grew more familiar with the content of what she was being taught, she began to enjoy the rhythm and stability of her new life.

Truva found cooking with Héodis and the King's chef supremely enjoyable, for it involved her most favorite activity: eating. Aside from the most simplistic of dishes, however, she demonstrated even less aptitude for the art of cooking than she did handling weapons. When asked to compose a dish from what could be foraged outside, Truva's mind easily drew the disparate pieces together to create a presentable meal that – while lacking in complexity and aesthetics – was at least nutritious; yet confronted with an array of incomprehensible ingredients, given a recipe, and asked to recreate it, Truva was always at a loss. As for baking, well, that was in and of itself another disaster entirely, and after some time the King's chef conceded defeat, declaring he had taught Truva all she might learn, and that she possessed a "soldier's touch" for cooking.

Truva also looked forward to Éomód's farrier lessons in the stables and the rides that often accompanied them, having over time developed a certain fondness for the giant creatures that were so central to Eorlingas culture. Éomód showed her the smithy and the methodology of forging shoes, and allowed her to accompany him on home visits to care for individual families' horses. Through his tutelage, Truva was able to witness the tremendous diversity of horses throughout Edoras and the surrounding area, both _Mearas_ and otherwise.

As for Gríma's lengthy lectures, Truva found it increasingly difficult to remain mindful, for oft her physical exhaustion after training caused her to grow listless or her thoughts to wander; yet when she reimagined the events Gríma narrated as stories and legends rather than history, they became fractionally easier to comprehend. Even so, it was Théodred's comical commentary that rendered the long hours in Meduseld bearable.

Most difficult of all, however, were the languages. Despite his lackadaisical personality, Théodred approached Truva's lessons in Eorling with surprising rigor, and it was not long ere he refused to speak with her in anything save his melodic native language.

The greatest trouble came when he concocted a wild campaign with the intention of not only improving Truva's Eorling capabilities, but also endearing her to the people of Edoras: he suggested one day that they parade about the city and interact with its people in their own native language. This proposition sent a wave of alarm through Truva, though she was forced to acknowledge that the intention behind it was well considered.

Her dread was in direct contrast with Théodred's joviality as they emerged from Meduseld and the prince led her in the direction of the market, Truva repeatedly muttering the most common Eorling greetings to herself all the while, absorbed entirely in her anxiety. Too soon, Théodred was waving to the greengrocer Dernrid, whom Truva had met her second day in Edoras.

"Halloo, my singular Dernrid!" he called in Eorling. "My, don't you look lovely today!"

"What is it you want, you young scamp?" Dernrid laughed in return. "Your flattery will get you nothing from me!"

"Not even the opportunity for my young friend here to practice her flourishing Eorling skills?" he replied impishly, motioning for Truva to come forward.

"Oh aye, I might be persuaded to consider such an offer! And if it isn't Truva! Lovely to see you, my dear; how have you been? I was just talking with Héodis the other day about your amusing adventures in the King's kitchen, and heard tell you burned flour – well, I never!"

Truva understood all that was being said, though her mind became unresponsive as she gawked at the greengrocer's kindly face; the greetings Truva had been reciting refused to materialize, and her mouth flapped open and closed like a fish caught upon a line. Panic began to swell within her heart, yet the more she frantically searched for the words, the faster they slipped through the nets of her mind. With a jolt, she realized they would never come.

Truva's eyes snapped to Théodred's face, and suddenly she could endure his anticipant gaze no longer; she turned and fled up the hill, bolting for the stables the moment she believed herself to be beyond view, for she knew from their conversation earlier that morning that Éomód would be away on farrier duty at Hornburg. The stables would be the last place anyone who assumed she still felt any discomfort toward the massive creatures would look for her.

After throwing the doors closed behind her, Truva dove into the stall of a horse named Bron, surprising even herself by bursting into tears. Crying was not a particular pastime of hers – indeed, it had not been since her initial lessons in weaponry with Éomer that Truva had wept, and yet her feeling of inadequacy then was not entirely incomparable.

The image of Dregant drifted into her vision then, his figure standing before her as she lay broken and splayed upon the ground. Truva could see the whip dripping with blood in his hand, a shudder running through her when she recalled the severity with which Dregant used to strike her for every word she misspoke. The sound of its lash cracked in her ears.

It was through his cruelty that Truva had come to master the Common Tongue, and she suspected that in being pushed unexpectedly to interact in the as yet unfamiliar Eorling, the panic she had once felt in the past again resurfaced and overwhelmed her. It was one thing to converse comfortably with Théodred during his lessons, but another entirely to fall under the judgement – whether real or imagined – of a veritable stranger.

Truva knew not how long she sat there, her tears renewing each time she believed she had calmed herself, when the sudden sound of the stable doors opening caused her to choke back her sobs. Even as she struggled to contain her breathing, hoping to be passed over unnoticed, Truva heard steps approaching the stall and Théodred's face appeared beyond. He gave Bron an affectionate pat as he slipped into the stall and sat wordlessly in the hay beside Truva.

He remained silent for quite some time before he turned to her at last and said, "It was terribly clever of you to hide here. I checked the training field, and your barracks, and Éomód and Héodis's home, and even Meduseld before coming here. I take it that you do not fear these creatures as you once did."

Truva did not respond.

"What was it that came over you?" he asked gently. "Though you have never been particularly voluble in either the Common Tongue or Eorling, you can carry a conversation well enough."

Truva stared straight ahead as she said, "I don't rightly understand it, myself." She hesitated another moment, cognizant of the fact that her behavior must be mystifying to him, yet the only further words she could offer were, "I am truly sorry."

Théodred studied her thoughtfully before responding, for as certain as he was that there was a reason for Truva's reticence, he did not think it right to press her. "Perhaps it is best we continue more limited lessons for now, then we might expand your social circle when you grow more comfortable."

He stood and offered Truva his hand. "Come, you've training this afternoon with Éomer. Let us take a simple lunch, so that you might collect yourself before then."

Truva stared at his extended hand, for though she was accustomed to the physical contact inherent in training, the Prince’s gesture was indeed the first offer of kindly touch shown to her since her arrival in Edoras – a gesture she herself could choose whether to accept or not. It was thus with a significance wholly lost on Théodred that she took his hand and rose to her feet, and though she let go immediately once standing, it was with markedly lighter heart that she walked with him to her barracks near the training field, silent all the while.

After the incident in the market, Truva continued her solitary lessons in Eorling with Théodred while also pivoting to studies of the written word, devoting the majority of her free time in the following months to her lessons with Éowyn and Gríma. Éowyn applied herself to the task of supplementing Gríma's teachings with incredible vigor; she would inquire as to what Gríma had taught Truva, then compel her pupil to practice that task, ever adding on so that poor Gríma found himself unceasingly adjusting his lessons upon discovering Éowyn had already covered his prepared materials.

Truva's extant proficiency in the Common Tongue, combined with Gríma's tutelage and Éowyn's relentless drilling, meant that she was soon able to scrawl full sentences and sentiments, as well as read the extensive annals Gríma placed before her, many of which had been borrowed from the libraries of Gondor.

True to her word, Truva relayed everything she learned from Gríma and Éowyn to Héodis, who perhaps picked it up even more rapidly than Truva.

"Though you are far more proficient in the Common Tongue than I, you have been unimaginably busy of late," replied Héodis when Truva commented so much one evening, as they sat ruminating on a list of new vocabulary after dinner. "I do nothing save run this house and study letters; you have your lessons to attend to, in addition to your training with Éomer."

"Caring for this house is a merciless task in and of itself, especially with little Fulmod," Truva reminded her.

"That is true," said Héodis, "Our house is modest, however, and Fulmod is a surprisingly well-behaved creature – it is no great task!"

Yet despite her friend's vocal humility, Truva returned home after one late night of field medicine instruction with Éofa only to discover a paper wedged between the door and its frame. Truva plucked the letter out and opened it as she entered the house that – over the course of nigh on a year, through the sweltering heat of summer and intolerable chill of winter – she had come to regard as a home. It was with great pleasure and sense of accomplishment that she was able to read the deliberate, block-like letters that could belong to no other than Héodis' purposeful hand:

> _Dear Truva,_
> 
> _Please join us for dinner tomorrow._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Héodis_

A simple message though it was, Truva knew that writing so much in the Common Tongue must have required a great amount of effort on Héodis part, as reading it had been on hers; it was therefore with glad heart that she made her way to Héodis' home after history lessons the following day, accompanied by Gríma.

Truva frequently visited to practice writing with Héodis, yet it was always with a renewed sense of comfort that she entered the cozy abode for leisurely purposes. Having arrived earlier, Éofa rose to greet both teacher and student, for Héodis was busy with dinner and Éomód was entertaining Fulmod. They all sat down together to converse, and the arrival of Éomer and Éowyn followed soon after. Théodred was last to join, his arms burdened by spectacularly aged wine.

"Happy one year Eorlingas anniversary, Truva!" he cried upon entering, to Truva's great confusion.

"I am sorry, I do not understand," she said, glancing about at all the others, who beamed back at her expectantly.

"It was precisely one year ago that you arrived in Edoras," said Éomer.

"We wished to surprise you with a small party!" exclaimed Héodis, though upon noticing tears well in Truva's eyes, she hastened to add, "Were we wrong?"

"No, no," said Truva, wiping the tears away. "I do not know why I cry, for my heart is full of naught but joy in this moment."

"Tears of joy," said Éofa, clasping Truva in his arms, for he had long ago forgotten when Truva had shied away from his touch on her very first day in the city; yet despite her discomfort, Truva was moved by the sentiments his embrace expressed, and did not protest as each Eorlingas took a moment to share affection for their companion.

When all tears had been dried, Héodis laid before them a scrumptious feast, and the conversation swelled again as they broke bread together. The warm, familial atmosphere caused Truva to regret somewhat having moved into her barracks, despite her newfound affection for spending time alone.

Théodred gave the revelers even more cause for celebration with a jovial idea: "It is spring, soon to be summer, is it not? Let us picnic!" This declaration met with rousing cheers, though Truva did not fully understand for what she was cheering.

"Picnic?" she inquired. "What is a picnic?"

Those gathered around the table froze and gazed in awe at Truva momentarily, for instances of her surprising naiveté had decreased so significantly over the past year that, on occasion, her foreignness slipped their minds entirely. Théodred stepped in quickly to alleviate her feeling of estrangement, for he had come to understand that a succinct and unaffected explanation was the least obtrusive way to remedy the situation.

"A picnic is when we go outdoors to play and feast; it is a respite from daily life."

Truva's eyes lit up. "That sounds wonderful!" she said, and the others smiled amongst each other at her sudden enthusiasm.

"Wherever shall we go?" asked Éofa.

"What of Harrowdale?" suggested Gríma. "Dunharrow ought to be refreshing this time of year, and we might take a dip in the Snowbourn, as well."

"It is near enough that we can be there and back again in enough time to avoid any great disturbance to my duties," added Éomer.

"What a splendid idea!" enthused Éowyn.

"It is settled, then!" said Théodred. "I shall send you all word when the preparations have been made!"

From that evening, it was far easier for Truva to endure training and focus on learning, for the existence of something specific to look forward to lent her great motivation. Even so, an eternity seemed to pass ere another paper found its way between Truva's door jamb.

> _Dearest Truva,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. It is with greatest pleasure that I invite you on a picnic this following Saturday after next. Be it your will, we shall relax within Harrowdale for two days, returning the Monday after our departure. Should these events seem agreeable to you, please send me your reply within the day._
> 
> _Lovingly,_
> 
> _Théodred_

After her initial happiness for having understood the letter in its entirety had abated, Truva fretted over how to respond to the unambiguously affectionate tone with which Théodred had written. It was thus with great deliberation that she composed a reply:

> _Dear Théodred,_
> 
> _Thank you for your kind letter. It would delight me no greater than to join you in your adventure. Please assume my participation._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Truva_

Even as Truva read the letter to herself it felt formulaic, and she could do nothing save trust Théodred to be sympathetic toward her continued discomfort with written correspondence. And so the few remaining days before the picnic passed, and on the very morning of their adventure Truva was awoken in the dark hours before dawn to the sound of a voice jovially calling her name from her front doorstep.

She opened the door and squinted blearily into the darkness, only to see Théodred standing on the threshold, bright-eyed despite the early hour. "Have you packed?" he asked, brushing past her into the tiny space beyond.

"What time is it?" Truva responded with her own question, rubbing her eyes.

"Time to go!" Théodred responded incorrigibly, pacing about her single room in search of anything that resembled luggage. Truva pulled a rucksack from beneath her bed, full of anything that could potentially be needed. Théodred relieved her of the rucksack without a word, slung it over his shoulders, and took off into the darkness with Truva in tow.

Their next stop was Éomer's quarters just across the training field. Éofa was there also, and the two were both wide awake and deep in conversation when Théodred and Truva arrived. Together, the four of them made their way toward the stables.

Truva was not yet officially paired with any horse of her own, though she felt particularly drawn to the creature named Bron, whose stall she had hidden in some time ago; he was reliable and steadfast, albeit prone to mischievous antics. Éomer mounted Firefoot, and Éofa climbed onto his steed as well – companions of theirs since their own days of training.

Rather than relying on his own stallion, Théodred guided two horses from the stable, where he hitched them to a wagon outside. When he was fully ready, he spurred the wagon on and the other three riders followed in tow. The small company rode then to the home of Éomód and Héodis, who took seats within the bed of the wagon, having entrusted Fulmod to the care of a relative for the weekend.

All together, they wound their way down the hill toward the gates of Edoras, where they came upon the figures of Gríma and Éowyn, though only the latter was mounted upon her horse. Rather than ride, Gríma instead clambered into the wagon alongside Éomód and they all departed into the pink light that heralded dawn.

Few words were exchanged during the first several hours of their journey, for most of the travelers were still shaking off the last tendrils of sleep. They observed the sun slowly inch above the eastern horizon with heartfelt appreciation and enthusiasm for the new day, and it was not until noon approached that several in the company grew restless.

"I am starving!" Éomód suddenly exclaimed from the wagon. "And I cannot believe I am alone in this sentiment."

"I should say not!" Gríma concurred, and in a short moment's work the entire group was gathered about a tiny fire, enjoying cold cuts of meat with bread still warm from when Héodis had baked it that morning. In an equally quick instant, they were back on the road again.

Trepidation settled into Truva's heart; thus far, the trip felt no different from the numerous training runs Éomer had led her on – quick forays into the wilderness that tested her developing survival skills. She once more failed to comprehend the enthusiasm of the others, and so she trailed dispiritedly after them.

They continued across the grasslands at the foothills of the White Mountains until Éomer cut south between two steep banks that gradually reared up into steep cliffs. When the rocky walls fell away and the company found themselves at the head of an ethereal glen, comprehension finally began to dawn upon Truva.

The ground beneath their feet sloped down toward the tree line of an immense forest, through which the Snowbourn crashed on its path north before cutting westward. Beyond the screen of evergreen pine and fir trees rose an imposing wall of rock, sheer and bold. Gathered there amongst friends, Truva felt the unfamiliar sensation of serenity steal over her, for not even in her home back in Edoras did she feel so secure as in the natural shelter provided by their surroundings.

The group halted at a clearing beside the Snowbourn, just a short distance into the trees. Those that had ridden saw to their mounts before gathering firewood and foraging for additional supplies, while those who had ridden in the wagon began to unload it. Truva and Éofa made an excellent team, returning with multiple armfuls of wood and even a pair of rabbits for stew.

By their fifth trip, when they deemed the pile of firewood to be more than sufficient, the wagon team had succeeded in erecting four tents in a semicircle about the banks of the river. Héodis and Éomód immediately laid claim to one of the middle tents, and Éomer demanded that he and Éofa use the foremost tent for security purposes. As the only two remaining males, Théodred and Gríma thought it appropriate that they took the other tent on the end, leaving Truva and Éowyn to awkwardly eye the remaining tent.

Despite the countless hours that Truva had spent under Éowyn's tutelage, the two had still not grown close. They were cordial, to be sure, yet they still felt as strangers to each other. It was in silence that they unpacked their belongings and unrolled their bedding on opposite sides of the large tent, escaping outside as soon as their task was completed.

When they emerged, Éofa had constructed a massive blaze and Héodis was directing Éomer and Gríma in meal preparation. As soon as Éofa was satisfied with his fire, Éomód set up a tripod from which he hung a large cauldron, then proceeded to fill it with water. When Truva and Éowyn inquired as to how they might be helpful, they were bade to relax and provided a tankard of ale by Théodred, who promptly joined them in watching the bustle.

"It will be our job to clean this mess later," he said cheerfully, "A task much better enjoyed when not sober, so drink up!"

The last of the sun's rays lingered above the western hills, staining the eastern cliff a peachy color by the time the rabbit stew was passed steaming among the members of the party. Their cheerful chatter echoed off the rocky walls and, amplified on its return, boosted the merry mood of the picnickers. Éomód roused himself to act out a comic tale of an old hunter who shot himself more than his prey, only to be followed by Éofa with a few invigorating songs, which were taken up by those who knew the words and tune.

They refilled their bowls until the cauldron was empty, then used the remaining fragments of bread to mop up the last morsels of their meal. Truva found particular enjoyment in the way Gríma surreptitiously cared for Éowyn. Even when it was Théodred who suggested opening a small cask of wine, Gríma was the first to leap up and serve them, Éowyn foremost of all. The others feigned not to notice, though it was with abashed hesitation that Éowyn accepted the attention.

As the fire settled into embers, Héodis launched into a frightening tale of the monsters that lingered in Harrowdale, the spirits of the stone púkel-men that descended at night from the path to Dwimorberg, sometimes as far as Edoras itself. Though Truva did not fully understand the details of the story, the red light of the fire that cast eerie shadows upon Héodis' face and the impenetrable darkness that closed in on all sides only served to heighten the suspense of her skillfully narrated tale. Each ominous crack of twig and ripple of river water caused Truva and Éofa to shift closer together in terror, for both were far more fearful of fictitious tales than genuine threats. Éomer and Théodred laughed at the duo's cowardice, though they caved to pity once a tear rolled down Truva's cheek.

"I shall not be able to sleep for a week!" Éofa exclaimed as the party began to settle in for the night and those whose duty it was saw to it that the dishes were cleaned. When Truva and Éowyn's backs were turned and their arms elbow-deep in river water, Théodred attempted to give them a startling fright in jest, though Truva's earsplitting shriek and instinctive strike to his nose caused him to reconsider any such action in the future.

At last Truva and Éowyn entered their tent to prepare for sleep, an uncomfortable silence floating in the air as they did so. Truva shifted back and forth on her bedding, and heard her tentmate do the same, for both felt unsettled by the circumstances. At great last, Éowyn spoke.

"Truva?" Her voice was quiet, though it startled Truva nevertheless.

"Yes?" she replied, equally quiet.

Éowyn hesitated before she asked at last, "What is your opinion of Gríma?"

Truva sat up with a start, considering her answer carefully. "I have not known him for long, nor am I a good judge of character," she hedged, "Yet I believe him to be a good man, an honest man."

"Do you think so?" Éowyn asked, clearly seeking reassurance. Though their relationship hitherto had not extended beyond matters of Truva's education – lessons conducted with distant, albeit not unfriendly, coolness – Truva wondered whether Éowyn might not be seeking a deeper comradery. Hopeful at the prospect of befriending the intimidating shieldmaiden, Truva boldly decided to disregard caution, rising instead and crossing the tent to sit upon Éowyn's bed. She and Éowyn sat cross-legged, face to face, each assessing the expression of the other in silence a moment.

"I do believe he is a good man," said Truva when she finally broke her reticence. "He has been knowledgeable, thoughtful, and kind in all our interactions.."

"He is not like the other Eorlingas," stated Éowyn. "Not only in the darkness of his hair, but in his behavior, as well. No other Eorlingas shuns the sword quite as vehemently as he, nor indulges in the written word as he does."

"I do believe his hands have never held anything save pen and spoon!" laughed Truva. "Yet therein lies Gríma's greatest charm: in the very fact that he is unique. I, too, am different from your people – do you fault me for it?"

"I fault none for their differences. And yet, being kin of Théoden King, I cannot help but feel concerned for the image that I would project, were I to accept his advances," Éowyn confessed.

"As I am no kin to any, I cannot possibly understand fully," admitted Truva, "However, Gríma is a trusted adviser of the King, and a regarded member of the community. I do not doubt your uncle and his people are capable of looking beyond appearances and personal oddities, and accepting Gríma for his many virtues."

"This is true," said Éowyn.

"Moreover," said Truva, "I imagine such burdens fall more heavily upon Théodred and – to a lesser extent – Éomer. They are both older and more direct in lineage. Why do you not allow your heart to guide you, rather than duty?"

Éowyn contemplated these words for some time, then said at last with a smile, "I do not know if your wisdom is that which I ought to follow, yet to hear you speak those words I desire to hear is great solace. Thank you, Truva."

"My only hope is to render as great a service to you as your family has rendered me," Truva responded, and it was with smiles upon their face that both fell off to sleep that night.

The next morning, all members of the party were woken by the clatter of pans as Héodis prepared a simple breakfast. Truva arose slowly, still groggy from the previous night, and sat in the silence of the dark tent for a while before Éowyn stirred also.

"Perhaps we should wash up first?" she said.

"Excellent idea," said Truva. "Yesterday's ride left me feeling positively filthy."

With a spare set of clothing each, they wandered along the banks of the Snowbourn until they reached a secluded bend in the river where the water pooled deep and calm, pristine water dappled by the boughs of pine and beech that cast an emerald hue over the scene. Noting a rock that projected out over the water, Truva was struck with a sudden idea.

"Shall we jump in from that ledge?" she suggested, indicating the protrusion.

"I would rather walk the Paths of the Dead!" said Éowyn.

"The paths of the dead?" Truva asked, uncomprehending. "What does that mean?"

"Your Eorling has improved so markedly of late that I often forget you are not one of us," said Éowyn, though upon seeing Truva's crestfallen expression, she quickly amended her words. "That is to say, you have not always been one of us, though you are most certainly a true Eorlingas now."

"I understood your intent," said Truva, who had not realized until that moment how openly her expressions spoke. "Thank you for saying so, all the same, and perhaps I might become a bit more Eorlingas if I were to learn another idiosyncratic phrase."

"My meaning was that I would sooner face certain death than jump into those frigid waters," explained Éowyn. She pointed beyond the tree cover to where the peak of a hulking, bleak mountain was just barely visible through the leaves. "That is Dwimorberg, at the base of which lies a path leading into the very rock itself, haunted by the wraiths of dark men from the southerly regions of the White Mountain – those cursed by Isildur upon breaking their oath of allegiance in the Second Age.

"It is said that no man may pass that way and live. Nigh on five hundred years ago, our own Prince Baldor entered into the shadow of Dwimorberg upon the conclusion of Meduseld's construction, never to return. His father, King Brego, died of despondency the very next year."

"I do recall Gríma mentioning in our lessons the story of King Brego and his son, though he mentioned no paths," said Truva.

"Some fear the Paths more than others, yet it is nevertheless a common expression among us."

"Thank you, I shall keep it in my memory for later reference," said Truva. "Now, will you leap into the river with me, or shall I have to throw you?"

With joyful cries, they both leapt one by one into the Snowbourn. The chill water shocked their lungs when they plunged beneath the river's depths, for though summer fast approached, the snowmelt from the White Mountains showed little indication of warming.

As she grew accustomed to the freezing temperature, Truva allowed her body to be buoyed to the surface and her mind to wander. She opened her eyes and gazed at the clear sky, azure lakes and rivers that traced their way along slight separations in the trees. Truva was undeniably content in having chosen the busy, intense life of an Eorlingas warrior – absent the stress and trauma of the Hidlands as it was – yet the sensation of all duty and expectations melting away was a new and pleasant one for her, regardless of how short-lived she knew it to be.

Éowyn broke Truva's reverie with a shocking wave of cold water, which transformed into a sweeping battle when Truva responded in kind. Both shrieked and splashed until they could stand the piercing chill no longer, then pulled themselves onto the riverbank and donned light underclothes, reviving their bodies as they lay in a thick patch of grass, bathed in warm sunlight.

Truva reluctantly roused herself after a few pangs of hunger, yet even as she stood she heard a rustling in the foliage that aroused her suspicion. Assuming it was one of the other picnickers come to spy on them, Truva motioned for Éowyn to remain silent and snuck behind the sound of footsteps that padded in the direction of their tents.

Just beyond the clearing of camp, however, Truva saw with a start that the footsteps did not belong to one of their party. She held back a gasp when she saw hiding behind a bush a creature so small it was almost child-like, and so emaciated that it was a wonder it had not yet died. Its skin had a deathly gray pallor, and naught but a few strings of hair clung to its skull-like head.

It was with immediate regret that Truva realized she had not brought any weapon with her, but then she recalled having spent the formative years of her life fighting weaponless, hand-to-hand combat. She immediately leapt into action, wrapping herself around the creature's turned back, pinning its limbs to its side and ensnaring its legs.

"Run! Tell the others!" Truva ordered Éowyn, who had followed behind, and she immediately dashed off. Truva struggled to contain the creature as it let out long, pitiful wails that caused her skin to crawl, for trying to keep ahold of the strange being was like attempting to grasp at a hooked fish; it wriggled and squirmed so violently Truva was afraid she would not be able restrain it until the others arrived.

Fortunately, the creature's cry had alerted them, and they were already racing toward Truva's location when Éowyn came upon them. Within moments they all surrounded the wrestling match between Truva and the intruder.

"Who are you and what is your business here?" demanded Éomer. The creature did not reply, and merely let out another wild shriek.

"Perhaps it does not speak Eorling?" suggested Gríma, then asked in the Common Tongue, "What is your name?" More pathetic screams issued from the being.

"Perhaps you should let it go?" Éofa suggested to Truva, and she did so, immediately bolting to a safe distance. The creature lay unmoving where it had been left, breathing heavily and looking entirely defeated, though it ceased its screeching noise.

"Who are you and what is your business here?" Éomer repeated, this time in the Common Tongue.

"Business? We have no business," the creature said at last. Its voice was high and squeaky, and it followed its declaration with a strange sound, as if clearing its throat.

"Is it an Orc?" asked Éowyn to Éomer.

"Orc? We are no nasty Orcses!" the creature declared, the pitch of its voice rising to a screech. "We hates nasty Orcses, yes we do, preciousss!" And again came the revolting, throaty retch: "Gollum, gollum!"

"If it is an Orc, I have never seen such a one," said Éomer. "I know not what it is, but I suspect not an Orc."

"But whether it is friend or foul," added Éofa, "That is far less clear."

"Orc I am not, nor am I fowl," squealed the creature. "I am no bird! Orcses I hate, yesss, precious!"

His wandering dialogue confused them all, though Théodred was next to attempt. "If you have no business here, explain your presence!"

"We are all presence," it said mysteriously, and Truva thought she saw a menacing look in its eye; she steeled herself for an attack, yet in an instant the look was gone, replaced by one of subservience. Still, Truva did not relax.

"What shall we do with it?" asked Éofa.

"We do not know its purpose, so it seems against morals to kill it," said Théodred casually. Upon hearing the word "kill," the creature writhed vigorously upon the earth and renewed its wailing.

"No, do not kill! We are not fowl!" As it struggled, its voice continued to rise higher. They all looked upon the creature with strange and varied feelings. At last Gríma spoke.

"Look at it," he said, with desperation in his voice as he reverted once more to Eorling. Truva studied his face and saw how deeply moved Gríma was by the plight of the creature as he continued, "I do not see how it can do us any harm! Let us act honorably and set it once more upon its path. We have not the right to deprive it of life, nor freedom."

Éomer considered carefully a moment before saying, "I concur. Though we do not know its purpose, it does not seem intent on hurting us."

"Then what must our course of action be?" asked Éofa.

"Let us blindfold it and lead it to a secluded place, then release it where it cannot come back to us," said Éomer.

"Is such a plan possible?" wondered Théodred.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said Gríma, "Nevertheless, it is the best alternative, is it not?"

The others nodded in agreement. Éomer stepped forward and spoke once more in the Common Tongue. "We will let you go, but in a place of some distance from here. We will blindfold you until we arrive."

The wretch's squealing abated at this proposal, when it came to the realization that they did not intend to kill it. "Cover our eyes, yes, yes," it said, "We will be good!"

Éofa approached the creature with a scrap of cloth and bound its eyes without much struggle.

"And its hands," Éomer added, though this caused the being to throw itself into a frenzy.

"No, no, not our handses! Our hands are our feetses, we must walk with them!" Its limbs flailed wildly as Éofa struggled to follow Éomer's orders.

"Very well, no hands," Éomer caved. "But you must follow where we direct."

"Yesss, precious! We will follow," it said with low, ominous tones.

Éomer directed Éofa to watch the creature as he drew the others aside and spoke to them in a low voice, purposefully using Eorling so they would not be understood, even if they were overheard. "Truva, Théodred, you come with me and Éofa to see this thing off. The rest of you, pack up the campsite when we are gone. I do not trust this beast, and I think it best that we be gone before nightfall."

They all separated into their individual tasks, and Truva followed Éomer and Éofa, Théodred beside her as they traveled amongst trees and along creeks, occasionally guiding the creature through the Common Tongue and sometimes by the nudge of a staff or branch. True to its word, the being often traversed on all fours, using its hands almost as often as its feet.

At last they came upon the crest of a small hill, deep within the crags of the mountains. The trees were so thick that they were offered no vantage point, and despite not having been blindfolded herself, Truva was thoroughly disoriented. Éomer and Éofa spun the creature around so many times she was afraid it might dispel what little food it had eaten recently, then tied it to a large tree despite its obnoxious protests.

"Do not follow us," warned Éofa.

"If we see you again, I imagine you are capable of comprehending what the conclusion shall be; it will not be pleasant," Éomer added, then led the others some distance in a continuation of the direction they had been traveling before he circled back toward camp, the wretch's wails following them all the while.

"Do you think we ought not to have at least removed its blindfold?" asked Truva in a rare utterance of Eorling, when she believed they were outside of earshot.

"Such devious creatures have no trouble extricating themselves from far more troubling circumstances," Éomer reassured her, conveying his approval of her language use by failing to remark upon it at all, as Théodred had taught him. "We ought to worry more about our safety than its."

They soon found themselves back at camp, which the others had broken down with such alacrity that they were simply waiting about, their task completed. Wordlessly, they mounted up or found a seat in the wagon and began their journey back to Edoras.

Noontide came and passed, and yet none were in the spirit to rest for lunch. Héodis distributed loaves of bread from the wagon, and Truva absentmindedly accepted one, more out of habit than hunger. She gave only the most perfunctory greeting when Éomer rode up beside her.

"I imagine this morning's events must have been shocking," he said, feigning offhandedness.

"I suppose you might say so," said Truva, still preoccupied.

"Your composure and bravery was that of a true Eorlingas," Éomer said, looking Truva straight in the eye. "It was your first time facing a threat outside of drills since coming under my command, and you responded well. Though you have years of experience I know nothing of, today you have proven ability beyond my anticipation."

"Thank you, my lord," replied Truva, truly humbled by his words, yet the disconcerting sound of the creature's shrieks still rung in her ears.

The company arrived in Edoras as the sun hung low over the Misty Mountains in the west, and Éomer was the first to part, saying he was to inform the King of their peculiar encounter. As the others parted toward their separate abodes in turn, a similar uneasy feeling plagued them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! May the new year bring good worth fighting for into your world.


	7. The Emissary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Schubert, String Quartet No.14 in D minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z42GrmR4U2Y&t=137s&ab_channel=tnsnamesoralong)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Downpour on a patio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNA0nWDB_P0&ab_channel=Hi-ResASMR)

It was still some considerable time following the picnic ere Truva joined the other recruits in training, for while there were some areas in which her skills had always surpassed that of the others, it had taken a great deal of effort to develop her weapons handling and language abilities to the degree that she could participate seamlessly.

The inclusion of this foreign female inevitably caused curious glances and standoffish behavior among the other recruits, for rumors of Truva’s story – some more accurate than others – had circulated unchecked for more than a year. Though their very own King’s sister-daughter was a fierce shieldmaiden, it was by her father and brother and cousins that Éowyn had been taught; never in the recruits’ lifetimes had a female participated in common training. Fortunately, Éomer was prompt and deft in extinguishing any disruptive behavior, and Truva’s life quickly settled into a comfortable new rhythm, the passage of time marked only by minor confusing incidents.

One such incident occurred several months after her introduction, when all recruits were engaged in mock combat during training one day. The air was rent with clashes and clangs as their blades flashed in the early morning sun, and Éomer paced through the pairs, dodging this way and that to evade thrusts and parries. In the shortest of moments, however, two trainees’ gear became entangled and they toppled to the ground directly before the Marshall.

Éomer leapt nimbly aside, yet not before one recruit’s sword catapulted from his flailing arm. Despite the edge on the blade having been dulled for the purpose of training, it lodged firmly in the tip of Éomer’s toe, which had been just within range. All movement ceased immediately.

“Helm!” bellowed Éomer in thunderous, raging tones. Truva stood aghast, for though Éomer often raised his voice during training, it was only for ease of hearing and never in anger. Indeed, Truva racked her mind for any instance of Éomer being anything save calm and collected, and could think of no such occasion.

The collective gasp that emitted from other recruits, however, signaled an entirely different sense of shock than Truva’s. Rather than intimidated by his outburst, their reaction was one of affront, and it seemed to Truva as though something of vast significance had escaped her understanding.

“I apologize,” said Éomer humbly, having regained his composure in an instant. One by one, the recruits gradually returned to their task, leaving Truva bewildered as to why the name of a historic Eorlingas king was so incendiary, and why Éomer had felt the need to tender an apology. She was not left long to wonder, for Éomer concluded training far earlier than he was wont to do, and an astonished atmosphere lingered in the air.

Still wrapped in a haze of confusion, Truva discovered a note on her doorway several days later, written in Théodred’s elegant hand:

> _Truest Truva,_
> 
> _The day after the morrow shall consist of a test in Eorling.  
>  Please dress with exceptional warmth._
> 
> _Ever yours, Théodred_

Truva did not understand his suggestion with regard to her clothing, for though the early spring days were yet chilly, Théodred’s lessons were almost always conducted inside – whether in Meduseld or any number of places.

True to his word, Théodred had slowly started to expand Truva’s social circle, beginning with lighthearted conversations in Eorling at Héodis’ home before requesting that Gríma also conduct his history lessons in the language, and at one point even suggesting that Truva address the King in his own native tongue. Each task was met with varying degrees of success, for her apprehension continued to plague her, yet each was certain to be conducted in the warmth of indoors, sheltered from the piercing cold of Edoras in winter.

Truva brushed Théodred’s curious request aside momentarily and determined that she would ask him about the meaning of the incident in the training yard when they met the following day, for she increasingly found Théodred to be a close friend and confidant, someone she could comfortably ask peculiar questions to without fear of being mocked, gaped at, or pitied.

After dawn training concluded on the day that Théodred had unilaterally scheduled her exam, Truva washed up quickly and donned a heavy coat, taking heed of Théodred’s advice regardless of how absurd it seemed. The two convened at the corner of the training yard, and as he led her toward the gates of Edoras, Théodred declared that the supposed “test” consisted of nothing more than conversing on a wide variety of subjects in Eorling, a feat which – due to his dedicated tutelage – Truva was exceptionally capable of.

The pair sat beside the Snowbourn as it rushed by, resting their backs against a tree just barely beginning to unfurl its leaves into the early spring air. Théodred had packed an additional blanket to ward off the chill, as well as a basket of delicacies. It felt more like play than work to Truva as she followed fresh bread and cheese with sweet wine, and laughed at the stories Théodred told in Eorling, of all the troubles he had created as a young, mischievous child.

During a lull in the conversation, Truva turned to him and asked, “What does ‘Helm’ mean?”

Théodred froze, gaping at her with eyes wide as she rushed to explain, “That is, Gríma has taught me in great detail about Helm Hammerhand, the eminent King of olden days, yet I recently heard it used in such a way that suggested a different meaning.”

Théodred sat unmoving for several moments before he burst suddenly into great peals of laughter. Truva thought his reaction to be terribly exaggerated, and it continued for so long that she began to feel somewhat uncomfortable, unsure of what it was about her words that the prince found so incredibly humorous.

When he at last regained some control of his breathing, Théodred asked, “Who was it that uttered such language?”

“Éomer,” Truva replied, though her response only served to renew Théodred’s hysterics. By the time he recovered once more, he was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Is that so?” he chortled. “Éomer! You don’t say!”

“Why is it so funny? The other recruits found it horrifying.”

“He said it in front of the recruits?” Théodred roared, and would have lost control again had Truva not interrupted.

“Two days ago, when a sword was dropped on his foot during training.”

“So that is why the poor man has been limping around these past few days,” Théodred mused with a twinkle in his eye. He then explained, “There are some words that are acceptable to the King’s ears, and there are those that are not. ‘Helm’ – as uttered in the way I suspect Éomer did – is unquestionably one of the latter.”

“Ah!” Truva said with sudden understanding. “The vernacular of the Hidlands was full of such words! They were used frequently and without hesitation by owners and free villagers, yet if slaves were to speak so, we were beaten mercilessly.”

“Yes, well, nobody will beat you for such language here, though I do not suggest using it lightly.”

“Are there any other similar words I ought to be careful of? I would hate to use one mistakenly.”

“Hmm,” Théodred mused, “I suppose ‘Helm!’ is the most common, followed by ‘Helm’s son!’ or ‘In Helm’s name.’ As he is idolized to a higher degree than Helm in our society, ‘Son of Eorl!’ is a slightly stronger expression, though when a great deal more emphasis is required, ‘In the name of Helm Hammerhand!’ is the favored phrase.” Théodred pronounced each utterance with a particular sense of satisfaction and enthusiasm, and it was unmistakably clear that he was enjoying himself.

“Of course, this is merely a small selection,” he added with a shrug.

“I feel as though this has been a particularly insightful lesson,” Truva said with a smile, and the two passed the remainder of the afternoon in a nonchalant manner, alternating between chatting and napping, and only returned to the gates once the contents of Théodred’s basket had been entirely consumed.

As spring progressed, the joyous atmosphere that had settled over Truva ever since the picnic excursion became overshadowed by apprehension as she heard news that the Mark found its borders beset more than ever by threats out of the east. Whispers of the palantír – forgotten for a time – resurfaced once more, and though Truva was not privy to many of the details, she found herself beside her friends bidding Gríma a hasty goodbye when he was at long last sent to Isengard as emissary.

Many of Gríma’s duties then fell entirely to Théodred, and while his dedication to Truva’s language instruction had been unparalleled, the prince clearly held no similar regard for history; thus all lessons on the matter grew more infrequent until they ceased altogether.

Théodred’s disaffection for the subject intrigued Truva, prompting her to ask one day as they walked about the market, “Why is it that you so utterly despise history?”

Théodred frowned slightly, and his gaze dropped to the dirt at their feet, considering his words for quite some time before responding, “Every event in history is a reminder of who I am supposed to be, the feats I am expected to measure up to; and I fear that I shall never fulfill such a glorious destiny – though my greater fear still is that I do not _wish_ to. I am a peaceful man, Truva, and it is through my father’s steadfast guidance that our lands have long prospered without great conflict.

“Each tale from our Eorlingas past raises an untenable dichotomy to the surface of my mind: the expectation of valor, yet the acute desire for it never to be necessary,” he said, eyes still downturned. Truva’s heart suddenly soared for this Man, trapped between duty and sense of self; and still she was startled to find herself reaching out a hand and laying it upon Théodred’s arm, for never had she initiated any such gesture of her own volition. The look in Théodred’s eyes spoke of equal surprise when he glanced in her direction, and rested his own hand on hers; then, as if suddenly recognizing their actions, they both withdrew sharply and walked on without a word.

Truva’s history lessons resumed when Gríma returned several months later, and all seemed to be well in Edoras once more. As spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn, however, some tiny, nearly indiscernible discrepancies nagged within Truva’s mind. Gríma, ordinarily a reserved yet nevertheless cheerful and considerate man, gradually grew even more insular and withdrawn. He did not dine alongside his companions with as much frequency as he once had, finding company in his books instead. The life seemed to fade from his countenance and his skin took on a sickly pallor, and the sparkle of intrigue grew diminished in his eyes. Whenever Truva entered Meduseld, Gríma was always consulting with Théoden King in concerned tones, and she feared his trip to Isengard had not brought about the political advantage the King sought.

Her concern grew as Gríma delved deeper into the history of the Mark during their lessons. His depiction of their southern Gondorian allies shifted from one of gallant heroism to one of betrayal and abandonment; and in spite of all news that returned from the borders of the Westfold, Gríma painted the increasingly hostile Dunlendings in a sympathetic light.

This interpretation Truva did not entirely disagree with, for despite their constant aggression she found the Dunlendings pitiable, having been driven from their homes when the land they occupied was redistributed without their knowledge or permission. Still, Gríma’s historical reassessment – as well as a newfound propensity for praising Isengard and the Wizard that occupied it – disturbed Truva. Their lessons grew increasingly uncomfortable until she failed to attend entirely.

Gríma was not the only one to display any change, however; the countenance of Théoden King altered, as well, and it was apparent to all that the news Gríma relayed set a great burden upon him. Over time, the King’s stature shrank and his shoulders grew hunched, and his once golden hair – only flecked with silver when Truva had first arrived in Edoras – became as white as the snowy peak of Thrihyrne in midwinter.

What had begun as imperceptible changes became increasingly pronounced as seasons passed, and over the course of several years the King slowly withdrew from view. What few public pronouncements he made began to lose their strength, and he became loath to take political action of any sort. The accolades and promotions that new recruits were accustomed to receiving upon completion of their basic training did not come; despite the flourishing skills of Truva and the others, they remained mere recruits, and those hopeful of following in the footsteps of affirmed soldiers were deprived of the opportunity.

Even more troubling was the news that streamed in from all borders of the Mark. At first it was limited, but then increased with such frequency that bearers of ill fortune became constant visitors to Meduseld – nor were Dunlendings the sole source of their plight, for stories of remote villages utterly ravaged by Orcs began to spread, and a disquietude settled over Edoras. The vibrant, bustling city Truva had once known was no longer.

Truva could not comprehend these stories, however, and as she could no longer ask Gríma, she looked instead to Théodred. The two of them sat at the edge of the training ground one afternoon after training when Truva turned to him and asked, “What are these ‘Orcs’ people speak of lately? Gríma but only mentioned them, though I recall Éowyn believed that creature in Harrowdale to be one. Why is it that they attack our villages?”

“Orcs?” repeated Théodred, shifting uncomfortably. He did not answer immediately, instead taking a moment to compose his answer. “They are bastardized Elves, born at the hand of dark evil. As to why they attack our villages— did Gríma truly not explain thoroughly?”

“No history he ever relayed to me required it,” said Truva.

“That was a great omission on his part,” said Théodred. He then began, “It extends far into the distant past – long before living memory – with the forging of Rings. These were no ordinary rings, for they had power, though many debate what that power was. Nine were given to the kings of Men, to lord dominion over their subjects. Seven were given to the Dwarves, and three to the Elves. But a last ring, master to these all, was forged in secret…”

Théodred continued with what little he knew of the wars fought long ago in the Second Age, quite enjoying how Truva hung with rapt attention upon his words. He did not pause his narration, even as the setting sun and chill wind drove them inside to Truva’s accommodations; and she continued to listen, wordlessly offering Théodred a drink as she prepared a humble dinner and ate it with him.

“So, as you see, these Orcs do the bidding of Sauron – and now Saruman as well, it would seem. These creatures know aught but evil and destruction, and would make slaves of us all – or worse – should we fail to stand between them and their goal of utter domination,” he concluded.

“Then we must not allow them to attain any such goal,” said Truva.

“Yes, that would seem to be the clear choice,” said Théodred with a smile, though his tone was inscrutable. He gathered his dishes and said, “Well, thank you for a lovely meal.”

“It honors me that the son of the King would be content with such meager fare,” said Truva abashedly, “Though it is truly all I have to offer in return for such a considerable tale.”

“I would have told it for free,” said Théodred.

“I know,” said Truva, and a reserved smile flitted inexplicably across her face. Théodred stood then, gazing at her for a brief moment as if to say something, then ultimately deciding against it.

“I shall be off, then,” he muttered, exiting through the door before Truva could so much as say goodbye.

One night not long after, at the conclusion of a particularly tense training session that was but one among several weeks of fraught drilling, Éomer suggested to Truva that they dine at Éomód and Héodis’ house that evening. Truva was so exhausted she could scarcely move, yet Éomer would not be denied, and after he assisted her to struggle out of her gear and stow it within the armory, they made their way through the houses of the city together.

Immediately upon arrival, Truva was unnerved by the hush that reigned in the typically boisterous home, and though she noted that Fulmod was already sleeping, it did not seem to be for his sake that the party remained silent. A peculiar, reticent gloom hung over the companions, each of whom wore a grim expression, and not a single one ate their meal despite Héodis’ delectable beef pie steaming on their plates.

As Truva sat pushing peas around with her fork, taking in the somber countenance of the others, it was Éomer who broke the silence at long last. “First and foremost, Truva: I would like to resume your private training immediately,” he said. “I fear we may be in need of exceptionally skilled fighters, and sooner than we think. Of all the recruits, you are the most promising, and most trustworthy.”

The warm glow of pride Truva might otherwise have felt at such high praise evaded her, for it was outweighed by the heavy unease that dampened the mood. She nevertheless replied, “I would be honored.”

“Our greatest setback is that we know nothing,” mused Éofa enigmatically.

“We know that the Dunlendings grow bold, brazenly attacking our borders, and that Orcs maraud openly across our lands,” Théodred said.

“Orcs?” gasped Héodis. She reached out to grasp her husband’s hand tightly.

“Nowhere near Edoras,” Éomer reassured her, “Yet closer than I should like.”

“What action does Théoden King seek to take?” asked Éomód.

“He has not held council nigh on two months, nor spoken at all before our people in almost three,” said Éowyn, “He is close, even to his own family; none know his mind.”

“Except perhaps Gríma,” Éomer growled.

“Where is Gríma?” Truva asked, suddenly noticing the adviser’s absence. Her question was met with a few moments of stony silence.

“I fear he can no longer be trusted,” said Éomer, “Some great change has overcome Gríma; he is not the man we used to know.”

“I believe the time has come for us to act ourselves,” said Théodred. “If my father feels no obligation to protect our borders, that duty must necessarily fall to us.”

“Openly defy the King?” exclaimed Éomód.

“We would not be defying him, per se,” Éofa reasoned. “It is not that he has forbidden us from taking action, he simply has not ordered us to, either.”

“I shall assemble an _éored_ of trusted Riders,” said Éomer. “Together, we will come to a consensus on what action is best to take.”

“I think it is best we maintain a base here,” Éomód said, still holding his wife’s hand. “Fulmod is far too young to travel, and neither of us would be particularly useful against Orcs.”

“I suppose I must also stay,” said Éowyn. “With both Théodred and Éomer gone, there will be none to keep watch in Meduseld, or over my uncle. Moreover, Gríma observes my every move, and I fear my absence might arouse his suspicions.”

“We must be certain that he cannot misinterpret our actions as an attempted coup, or at least portray them as such to Théoden King,” added Théodred.

“Very well. Let us see to our duties, then reassemble soon,” concluded Éomer.

As they left, the Marshal beckoned to Truva. He led her without a word to the large armory, but when he lit a lamp he led her not to the training equipment, nor did he bid her gather any pads or dull weapons. He led her instead to the very rear of the storeroom, where the light of the lamp only just trickled into the recesses of the vast array of instruments.

“You have armor provided by the King – armour of fine make that will serve you well,” he said, coming upon a wooden chest and reaching deep within to draw from it a long black case. “I had intended to give this to you upon the conclusion of your training, though it is typically a father or brother who presents it to the graduating recruit. It seems you have been unfairly robbed of such ceremony.”

Éomer unlatched the case and opened it, extending it to Truva. Contained inside was a sword, sheathed in a black leather scabbard. Truva slowly reached out to take it but hesitated, her hand hovering unsure over the weapon.

“Take it, it is yours,” Éomer urged. Truva lifted the sword from its case, first observing its simple, unadorned hilt before unsheathing it and examining its blade. When she tested its edge, a drop of blood immediately blossomed on her thumb.

“It is a sword of no great origin; it is plain and unassuming,” he said. “Give it your own story.”

With that, Truva resheathed the blade. Éomer took the lamp and they exited the armory, walking silently and lost in their separate thoughts. She bade goodbye to Éomer when he parted toward the Marshal’s quarters before rushing back to her own home. Once inside, Truva laid the sword before her armor and stared at through the dark, pondering the events of the evening. She wondered how circumstances could have devolved so imperceptibly yet so readily from the comfort she had grown accustomed to, and feared the inauspicious uncertainty that seemed to be closing in.


	8. The Fords of Isen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Shostakovich, Symphony No. 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L__jruvYuCg&ab_channel=olla-vogala)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Autumn river](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IadsLclBOS8&t=14896s&ab_channel=TheSilentWatcher)
> 
>  _Disclaimer:_ This chapter contains a poem that appears in Tolkien's original work and thus is clearly not my own, and I claim no ownership of it.

Based on Éomer’s insistence that her training regimen intensify once more, Truva had presumed the covertly accumulating forces of those loyal to the Mark would remain in Edoras for some time, yet all such assumptions were wrong. A mere three days of hectic preparation passed ere a score of Eorlingas warriors stood before Théoden King, and as Théodred was strangely not present, it was Éomer who stepped to the forefront. As the Marshal spoke, Gríma lurked in the shadows behind the throne of the King, as he had a tendency of doing in recent days.

“It is but a training exercise, nothing more than those we have conducted in years past without incident,” said Éomer, by way of explanation. “It is necessary – and always has been – to retain our troops’ mobility and preparedness for any potential threat to these lands, from wheresoever it may come.”

“An exercise that is sure to set our allies on edge in these dark times,” countered Gríma with a glance to the King, who sat absentmindedly, saying nothing. Théoden King’s infirm appearance had worsened drastically in the months he had spent outside of public view, and Truva could not help but wonder whether he was capable of feeling any sympathy for his own kin that stood before him, begging leave to do what was necessary to protect their beloved lands and people; or indeed whether he was capable of so much as comprehending the events that were unfolding in Meduseld.

“Our expected path lies well within our borders. Should our allies or enemies alike learn of our movements, it will be due to no other reason than their impinging upon our lands without our knowledge or consent,” Éomer retorted, fully aware that those Gríma considered allies were not consistent with his own reckoning.

“Nevertheless, the friends of this great nation have a right to be informed, and so you would agree, were you not so bent on betraying your King, to provoke his allies then abandon him when they rightfully counter!” Gríma spat. Though Éomer’s protective mass stood between her and the King’s advisor, it took a great deal of mental fortitude on Truva’s part not to shrink back at Gríma’s words, for it startled her to witness someone she had once considered so good transform into a figure of twisted, hateful mien. His was the behavior of those she had known in the Hidlands, not her mild mannered, erstwhile tutor.

“I will not have my allegiance questioned so!” Éomer’s voice boomed, though he did not raise it, and at once it abated. “My only wish is to serve and protect my King and people.”

“Let them go.” This was spoken so weakly that none present were sure they had heard it properly.

“I am sorry, my lord?” said Gríma, his demeanor altering in an instant, suddenly fawning upon the wizened and bent King.

“Let them go,” the King repeated, no louder. These words sent Gríma’s face into a convulsion of nasty expressions, and it clearly pained him to assent to the King’s declaration.

“Very well; as the King proclaims, so shall it be done! Yet if any harm befalls our hallowed halls or the lands of the Mark, we shall know it to be the doing of this rash and malcontent Marshal, whom the King once considered family,” said Gríma with a malicious glower in Éomer’s direction.

“My liege,” was all Éomer said before he bowed deeply at the foot of Théoden King and turned to exit.

“However!” cried Gríma, causing Éomer to pause, back turned to the dais, “If you choose to leave these city walls, you may never return. Should you abandon your King, he will in turn abandon you, and all who follow; the moment of your exit marks the first of your banishment from the Mark!”

Éomer faltered then, for his was a decision of significant gravity not to be made capriciously, and the Marshal’s shoulders visibly bowed under this burden; yet at great last he marched forward resolutely, and every member of the company followed suit, exiting Meduseld as a unified whole and exuding a determined air. It was an outcome they had long discussed and were prepared for, as it was their understanding that the King that currently sat upon the throne was not the same King they had sworn allegiance to.

The Riders solemnly made their way to the stables, where the packs and all other supplies they had gathered over the past three days lay waiting. There they encountered Théodred, who was already prepared to depart. Truva gave him a brief wave as she greeted her horse, Bron, with a fresh apple; for initial attraction had blossomed into outright affection, and Truva could no longer bring herself to ride any other steed.

Bron was a simple creature, both in mind and body – not altogether dissimilar from his rider. He was neither the swiftest nor the strongest mount, yet he was steadfast and true, determined to overcome any shortcoming through hard work. He also had a particular penchant for treats; his long black tail flicked over his tawny back in simple pleasure as he munched on the proffered apple. Truva’s heart weighed heavily, for the poor creature had no notion of the power struggles of Men, yet there was nothing to be done save load her packs onto Bron’s back and give him a playful smack on the rump before mounting up.

After years of riding, the creature that had once been intimidatingly large to Truva now felt like a mere extension of herself, and it was with relative ease that she maneuvered Bron out of the stables behind the others, trotting down the path toward the gates. Nearly a hundred other Riders joined the company at the entrance to Edoras, though all together the banished scarcely comprised a full _éored_. They exited the gates, observed quietly by no more than a handful of Eorlingas villagers who simply happened to be about, for there was no time nor occasion for goodbyes.

When Truva escaped the Hidlands, she had believed herself to be fleeing solitarily from a place she loathed, to which she had no desire to return; the companionship of the Eorlingas had been tenuous and unlooked for. In leaving Edoras, however, she was leaving a place she loved and considered home – a thought which birthed a torment such as could not be wholly assuaged by the company of Riders who rode in stride about her, no matter how steadfast their camaraderie had become.

The sentiments that arose in her heart from the two distinct occasions of departure were in no way comparable, and yet each felt equally permanent in Truva’s mind. She glanced back once – only once – upon the place that had, if only briefly, demonstrated to her what a true home might have been, before facing ahead and falling in formation behind Éomer Marshal.

The company followed northwest along the Great Road, for though they were banished from the lands of the Mark, Éomer had explained it was his intention to follow their originally outlined path at first: to travel the Road to Helm’s Deep, where they would confirm that the Hornburg remained secure, unaware as its occupants were of the Riders’ ostensible betrayal. From there they would circle north to where recent rumours of destruction along Fangorn Forest originated, after which they would reconvene with Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-mark.

Elfhelm Marshal would return to Edoras from Aldburg in the meantime, so that he might mitigate any negative repercussions resulting from the departure of Éomer Marshal and the King’s forces, and to rally additional support in the city – though it was also an unspoken hope among the outcasts that Elfhelm Marshal might ultimately return to them with news of the miraculous recovery of Théoden King.

Contradictory to the gloomy mood that hung over the Riders, the weather was exquisite; the late February skies were clear and bright, yet the chill air prevented their mounts from overexertion. Birds trilled and flitted through tall swaths of grass, though the vast majority of Eorlingas rode in silence. The sole exception was, of course, Théodred, who attempted to converse with anyone who appeared likely to respond. After several failures to elicit any sort of meaningful reply, he dropped back until he rode beside Truva.

“What wonderful weather we’re having!” he said with a deceptive sense of cheer, though it failed entirely to fool Truva.

“You are upset over leaving your father,” she said bluntly, fixing the Prince in her gaze.

“Straight to the quick!” he said with a smile, though over the years Truva had grown familiar enough with Théodred to know his exuberant expression was sincere, while simultaneously serving as a cover for the inner turmoil he endured. When he turned to see Truva’s inquiring eyes upon him, he sighed resignedly and his smile faltered.

“The King is my father, it is true,” he said at last, shifting the reins in his hands, “Yet that does not alter the fact that his inaction jeopardizes the wellbeing of our people. Oh, how I labored these past few years to overcome whatever force it is that turns his eye blind to the realities that threaten our lands! It pains me grievously to admit that even the influence of his very own son yielded no effect upon the King; yet were I to remain behind in Meduseld, my presence would have served no purpose – at Éomer’s side, however, I might still effect some positive result.”

“Even so, I am sorry you have to leave him,” said Truva.

“And I am sorry you have to leave your home,” said Théodred, his smile much more wan than before.

“Oh, but I am not leaving it,” said Truva, with a pointed look about the other Riders; for as much as leaving Edoras pained her, and their presence could not fully alleviate that pain, Truva realized also she would always feel at home among the Riders who loved and accepted her unconditionally; and the smile Théodred gave then was wholly genuine.

“It is true; home can be anywhere, as long as you are with those you consider family,” he said, and they rode on in silence, mildly comforted in spite of the morning’s events.

A day and a half of light travel passed ere they arrived before Helm’s Deep and the Hornburg, which lay at the base of the Deeping-coomb. Éomer had often led his recruits, including Truva, far afield on training missions, yet they never traveled so far as the massive fortress of the West-mark. It was the first time since her brief glimpse all those years ago that Truva laid eyes upon the spectacular edifice; and she longed to see within its walls, yet a single horn blast from Éomer and a return signal from the impenetrable guard tower was the only interaction that occurred between the two parties.

“Erkenbrand abides,” Éomer declared before continuing along their path.

From that point, the _éored_ banked northward and rode on until the sky grew dark. It was as the Riders began to set up camp for the night that two scouts came racing back, seeking to speak urgently with Éomer and Théodred. After a short, terse conversation in hushed tones, the leaders called four men to them, who soon dispersed to spread word among the Riders. Loath as she was to wait for information, Truva approached the two Marshals directly.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “There is clearly something amiss.” 

“Saruman the Wizard is mustering a force of Uruk-hai at Isengard,” said Éomer with lowered voice, ignoring Truva’s impetuous disregard for hierarchy, for long had the distinction between their rank been blurred by amity. “Perhaps he has heard Edoras is weak now, and plans to take advantage of the division in our forces, and the depleted numbers that now guard the capital.”

“We have no choice but to head them off at the Fords of Isen,” said Théodred, his face a display of consternation. “We must not allow them to cut through our defenses; we are all that can be reliably depended upon to guard the Mark now, susceptible as the remaining forces are to Gríma’s influence.”

“But for now, we must rest. We ride to the Fords in the morning and hopefully surprise our enemies with our arrival tomorrow night. I want you on the next watch,” Éomer ordered Truva.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, struggling to process the situation. She immediately left to relieve the first sentry at his post and sat contemplating the impending conflict as she scanned the area, aware more than ever of the fact that true enemies might be prowling within the vicinity.

After some time, what few fires the Riders had dared to set began to die out as the camp settled in for the night, to glean what rest might be had before battle. Even as Truva resigned herself to the mundane routine of watch, however, Théodred appeared with a bowl of stew and some bread, left over from dinner.

“I heard you took your watch without eating,” he said. Truva thanked him as she accepted the steaming bowl, noting that even the bread had been thoughtfully heated by the fireside.

“Are you not supposed to be resting?” she asked as he took a seat upon the ground beside her.

“I will, soon,” he said dismissively. “But first I wanted to check on our little recruit.”

“I may still be a recruit in word, yet I am not so little, you know,” Truva retorted.

“You are littler than me,” Théodred pointed out.

“So is Éomer, though you do not call him little.”

“Oh, but I do!” Théodred said cheekily as Truva sulked, for while her height might have given her an occasional advantage in the Hidlands, it was a perpetual source of good-natured ridicule among the long-limbed Eorlingas warriors.

“Come now, do not be so out of sorts,” said Théodred, “I simply wanted to inquire as to how our current situation is affecting you.”

Truva took a moment to assess her own emotions before responding. “I have experienced many, many fights – oh, so many fights – yet this is not the same. There is no great risk of death in Hidland fighting, for it is ever the owners’ desire to protect their assets; yet this— this is something new entirely.”

“It is only natural to feel nervous,” Théodred reassured her. “I always have, and often have I discussed it with Éomer, who is likewise not impervious to its effects. There are few who deny feeling so: only those too foolhardy to know that they ought to fear, and those whose false pride does not allow them to acknowledge it. Nervousness is nothing more than your body coming alive! In the Mark, we say ‘horses run through your heart.’”

“Horses run through your heart,” Truva mused. “A poetic turn of phrase, that is for certain – one that perfectly describes the way my heart pounds against my chest even now.”

“There are loosely three circumstances in which we use this phrase: first, when we feel nervous, as I have just explained. Second, when the spirit of Eorl takes over a Rider.”

“As in when they accomplish some tremendous feat of valor?”

“Precisely!” said Théodred. “Such as when the war-horn was blown, and from Súthburg Helm Hammerhand emerged to strike fear into the heart of the Dunlendings.”

“I see. And the third?” Truva prompted.

“The third occasion when we use such a phrase,” Théodred said quietly, his eyes dropping to his lap with uncharacteristic hesitancy, “The third occasion is when we are in love.”

Not knowing how to respond, Truva’s eyes were gradually drawn toward Théodred, who was suddenly gazing at her with such intensity that she was forced to look away, scanning out across the horizon in a return to her duties as watchman. Even so, she felt Théodred’s eyes upon her, and she turned once more to face him.

The peculiar look on his face caused Truva’s breath to come up short, and the racing of her heart to accelerate. As Truva studied his face intently, desperate for clues as to the intent behind his words, Théodred suddenly dropped his gaze once more and stared at his long, delicate fingers woven tightly in his lap.

Surely Truva must be mistaken, must be assigning additional meaning to his words where none existed; before her sat the elegant figure of a prince, who was but a single step distant from a throne that would raise him to the forefront of a vast land occupied by a proud, noble people; a prince who had never been deprived of any opportunity to appease his every whim, who had never known hunger or want, who was beloved throughout the Mark.

How could such a dignitary so much as entertain the idea of fostering any sort of affection for one such as she, proud though Truva was of all that she had achieved? She could lay claim to no great lineage, as her very parentage itself was a mystery to her; she did not hold any remarkable position – mere recruit of the King’s army as she was – nor did she harbor any aspirations to ascend to one, for over the past several years Truva had grown to appreciate the simple life she led, and never had she dared dream of anything more.

Yet her confusion grew as she thought back upon the particular care Théodred had shown ever since her arrival in Edoras, and how it extended far beyond even the most hospitable welcome others had offered. The dedication with which he had applied himself to her lessons in Eorling, the countless nosegays of simbelmynë, his thoughtful letters, cheerful conversation on joyous days and words of comfort on miserable ones – Truva had attributed such attentions to nothing more than Théodred’s benevolent nature, for she had little experience in the matter by which to judge them, and yet—

Théodred’s gaze lifted then to meet Truva’s own, and she could see that she had not been mistaken; there in his eyes flamed a passion that she had not known until that very moment, and there was hurt, too, for long had she been reticent in thought, and allowed him to writhe in the emotional anguish of anticipation.

Truva’s eyes then flicked back to her own hands, which somehow suddenly did not know where to belong. “Do you— I do not wish to presume, but— That is to say, do you mean—?” She struggled to express the jumble in her mind.

Théodred rushed to reassure her. “That is, I am fully aware your experience in emotions of the heart differ greatly from mine, and I most certainly do not wish to lay a burden upon you with my words; it is simply that I feel more at ease, more free with you than I have ever felt with any other woman. And you— I can see that horses run through your heart as well, Truva; the spirit of Eorl speaks to you, regardless of your origin. And with the approaching battle, I feared— I feared that, were I to say nothing, I would regret it eternally.”

When he fell quiet, Truva studied him intently. She took in his boyish short hair – the only Eorlingas warrior to wear it so, for he claimed longer hair annoyed him – and his sun-freckled skin and prominent cheekbones, and noted the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth that had begun to set in despite his young age; most were creases from laughing, yet she could see also the weight of an entire kingdom carved upon his features.

Without meeting her eyes, Théodred stood up with a start. “I ought to sleep now. I am to take a later watch,” and with that he stalked off, his lanky gait that had once amused her now causing her chest to balloon painfully.

Truva sat unmoving for some time, her gaze continuing to sweep about the camp’s surroundings; yet she kept Théodred’s vacated seat constantly in her peripheral, for she could not seem to shake the Prince’s presence as his words repeated in her mind. She was so focused on observing outwardly that she failed to notice Éomer approaching from behind until he took a seat beside her. He laughed quietly when she started.

“For the record, he does still call me ‘little Éomer’ – just not in front of the ranks,” he said with a chuckle. Truva turned to stare at him, eyes wide in shock, though he merely pointed forward to redirect her attention toward keeping watch.

“I suppose you heard—“

“Everything, why yes,” said Éomer, smiling gently at her horrified expression. “Do not look so shocked! I had merely come to relieve you of your watch. What Théodred was saying seemed like it could not wait, however, so I did not interrupt.”

“So you eavesdropped instead,” accused Truva, and Éomer shrugged playfully in response.

“What is important is not what I heard – it is how you feel,” he said. When Truva failed to respond, he prompted, “I am asking you how you _feel_.”

Truva could not reply at once, for in truth she did not quite know how she felt, let alone how to articulate it. After some consideration, she said, “He expressed in words emotions I have very little knowledge of. I feel as though he simply reached into my mind and extricated precisely what I was thinking, without my ever being conscious that I was thinking it.”

Éomer quietly nodded in agreement. “Many men say all manner of things to make naïve young women fall in love with them,” he cautioned, “And yet I have known Théodred a terribly long time – ever since it was accurate to call me ‘Little Éomer’ – and never have I heard him speak with such sincerity.”

Truva found her voice lost in that moment, for all of her emotions were so inextricably entangled that she could not unweave them, nor was she even sure how to begin.

“You should get some sleep,” said Éomer after a time. “I know not what tomorrow may bring, save that it will be no ordinary day.”

And so Truva left Éomer to his watch, and perturbed as she was by the events of that evening, sleep was slow to overtake her, and the following morning came far too early. Truva was not alone in her restlessness, however, for with unsettled energy every single Rider had awoken before dawn and packed their camp ere the dew dried. The last watch was called back early as everybody broke a simple fast, downing what little bread remained in their panniers, too anxious to eat anything more substantial.

Sunlight was just beginning to seep over the horizon when the Riders peeled out, more subdued in spirit yet driving a harder pace than any previous day since their departure from Edoras, and thus they made alarmingly good time. It was around noon that the company came within sight of the River Isen, over which naught but a trickle of water flowed. Truva knew the river from the maps Gríma had her study, as well as the Road that veered and ran parallel alongside it for some distance.

Darkness was only threatening to descend by the time the company bore down upon the Fords. When the Riders came within sight of the rocky crossing, Truva was struck by a strange sense of familiarity, although some details seemed unplaceable and the exact scene eluded her memory. As they drew closer, Éomer dropped back to ride alongside her.

“Do you recall this place?” he asked. When Truva shrugged noncommittally, he added, “We passed here when we trekked from the Hidlands to Edoras, though we did not tarry long, for even in those days our suspicion of the goings-on at Isengard were aroused. Back then, these waters flowed more freely. Something is amiss.”

Upon their arrival at the Fords, quick preparations were made. Éomer and Théodred divided the force roughly in half, with the intention of protecting both sides of the river; for Isengard lay at its source, and thus Saruman could easily send his forces down either side. Upon the west bank lay the easier path, yet traveling along the eastern side negated the need to cross the river if bound for an assault on Edoras. Though the scouts had returned with no tell of certainties, whispers that rippled through the Riders hinted that the bulk of Saruman’s forces were amassing to the west.

Théodred therefore insisted that it be he who led his force along the western side of the river, to surge northward and take the Uruk-hai by surprise even as they prepared to march on Edoras, leaving Éomer to protect the eastern bank and all the Mark should their information prove incorrect – or Théodred’s Riders fail. Despite the significance of impending events, in believing their victory to be assured, Éomer encouraged Truva to join Théodred’s troops so that her first experience of genuine combat might be gained without ever truly being exposed to any great danger.

As Éomer and his warriors entrenched their position upon the east bank, Théodred and his company, including Truva, set out under the cover of full darkness. In the dim light, a shallow swath in the wide river could be seen stretching across to a tiny island in the middle, and it was there that the Riders crossed before turning and progressing northward.

The going was easy, for the path was wide and clear and a waxing moon hung overhead, offering a feeble light to see by. The trickle of the river’s abated water was subtle yet sufficient to cover the sound of their approach, and great beech and poplar trees reared up on both sides, lending the riders a sense of security while also kindling a fear of what might be lurking among the impenetrable shadows.

Several miles they traveled upriver, and all the while Théodred maintained a moderate pace, for he did not wish to exhaust his fighters or their horses. The Riders themselves remained hushed and hesitant, anxious to engage, and a few struggled to reassure their mounts, who in sensing their masters’ tension tossed their heads and swished their tails. Truva noticed a faint clinking sound, and looked down to see Bron’s reigns trembling in her hands, yet even when she took a deep breath to calm her heart the shaking did not fully subside.

A most peculiar thing happened then; a calmness passed through the warriors, despite – or perhaps because of – the knowledge that they rapidly approached Isengard and the forces that amassed there, and the inevitability of what was to come seemed undeniable. The horses’ fidgeting ceased and the Riders’ posture straightened as they threw their shoulders back defiantly, continuing on with a resolute, determined air.

They rode on some distance further, entranced by the eerie tranquility, before the silence that hung over the Riders was broken suddenly by a chorus of deep-throated growls emanating from amongst the trees and thick undergrowth. The terrifying noises surrounded the company on three fronts, and in a single moment Théodred’s forces found themselves face-to-face with a mass of creatures that melted from the shadows and sprung snarling upon the Riders.

“Uruk-hai!” cried Théodred, drawing his sword to fend off the first wave of beasts that leapt upon him. Truva failed to react rationally for a few moments as she gazed on, stupefied by the Uruk-hai, whose heads stood easily as high as the Riddermark horses’ and whose skin, just barely visible beneath darkened armor, was a mottled blue-black color that allowed them to blend seamlessly into the night. They bore also eyes as yellow as their rotted teeth, and yet the most distinctive feature to Truva was their impressive musculature; many fighters of the Hidlands trained for decades and still did not attain such toned bodies, even if fed well by their owners.

Truva did not have much time to observe these creatures, however, for no sooner had the Uruk-hai been perceived by the Eorlingas than they fell upon the outward flanks of the Riders in a whirl of glinting swords and clacking pikes. Trapped on the right side of the company, Truva was forced to quickly assess her weapon choices.

The Uruk-hai approached too close to allow the use of a bow, for which Truva was thankful, as her skills in archery still left a great deal to be desired. She knew also her spear would only prove cumbersome, so instead she drew her sword, the only weapon she wielded comfortably and confidently. It had not been long since Éomer had gifted the blade to her, however, and its balance still felt unfamiliar in her hands, for she had been afforded little time to train with it, and had never suspected how quickly she would be compelled to use it.

Truva swung the sword through the air to regain a sense of its movement, watching its unadorned edges gleam in the moonlight. In looking to her mount, Bron, to ensure that he would not take fright, he seemed even more steady than she herself; for it was in panic that, when the closest Uruk-hai sprung upon her, Truva slashed her sword haphazardly against his chest.

She was thrown from the saddle by the force of the impact. Her head struck the ground and the world went black for a moment, and she could see nothing save red and purple stars. With a shake of her head, Truva regained her senses and scrambled to her feet, for one simple stroke had been insufficient to fell the Uruk-hai, and he merely spun about and charged at her again. Truva took a hurried breath to collect herself, and recalled Théodred’s word on nervousness; then she lowered the hilt of her sword and angled the tip toward the joint between the Uruk-hai’s helmet and chain-link about his neck, where Éomer had taught her their armor was weakest.

As she thrust upward, her blade slipped easily through the Uruk-hai’s defenses and straight out the back of his neck, after which she threw her foot upon the beast’s chest and rapidly withdrew her sword back into a guarded position. The Uruk-hai tottered for a brief moment, his foul lips still curled into a snarl, before he collapsed upon the roadway and lay still. Truva likewise stood motionless, transfixed, for she was suddenly cognizant of the fact that she had taken another being’s life for the first time in her own.

Truva was afforded no time to process the disturbing emotions that coursed through her, however, for another swarm of Uruk-hai immediately closed in around her. She leapt back into the saddle and spun Bron about to face these new attackers, allowing her body to take over as she fell back on years of training; her mind emptied, for cognizant thought lagged far behind action as her sword flashed around her, slashing and stabbing until little by little the press of Uruk-hai subsided.

In the unsettling hush that followed, when only the gasping breaths of the Eorlingas fighters and the snorts of their mounts could be heard, Truva’s eyes were drawn forward to Théodred, who sat perched upon his steed with sword dripping from the blood of slain Uruk-hai that lay scattered around him. His horse reared against the gleaming moon then, and suddenly Truva saw in his being a new incarnation of sovereign; no longer was Théodred the goofy, lackadaisical young son of a king she had considered him to be until that moment — no, the figure before her could be perceived as nothing less than an indomitable Prince and Marshal of the Eorlingas, whose actions, not mere status of birth, crowned him a formidable leader who would not be denied.

“They were but a vanguard,” he warned the others quietly. “The bulk of their forces – our true test – surely still lie ahead.”

Not another word was said. The Riders split their numbers, clinging to separate sides of the path or moving through the undergrowth, both to clear it of potential enemies and to avoid being a direct target of whatever attack lay in anticipation of their approach. In their nervousness, the Riders’ pace subconsciously picked up; the earlier illusion of tranquility had been shattered, and each warrior’s breath caught in their throats at every snap of a twig or shift of a shadow. Their hearts, once set to racing, refused to be calmed.

It was not long before Théodred’s horse, exhilarated by the frantic events, stumbled unwittingly into the trenches that Saruman’s forces had prepared for their assault. Théodred scarcely managed to scramble free before he fell under a hail of arrows that came from across the pits as the night air was rent by the furious barks of the enemy. This new mass of Uruk-hai had clearly been anticipating the Eorlingas’ blind approach – the vanguard had merely been a guise.

Forced to draw her bow at last, Truva unleashed several volleys of arrows into the darkness beyond the trenches, assuming the Uruk-hai were amassed so closely that, blind as she was to their position, she must surely have hit a few regardless of accuracy. Yet while she was preoccupied with the forces before her, two more mobs of Uruk-hai descended upon the flanks of the Eorlingas, clearly intending to surround the riders.

Truva drew her blade once more with relish, and beat back any foe that dared approach her. When an unlucky glancing strike knocked her sword from her hand, Truva did not waste a second in pulling a spear from the fallen corpse of an Orc and utilizing its precise point to strike several others through the eyes of their helmets. She knocked another back with the butt of the spear, creating enough space for her to dismount and collect her blade.

A massive Uruk loomed before her then, its armor glistening with blood that streamed from a gash in its shoulder. He leered at her, revealing mangled teeth in a nauseating grimace, and wiped the blood across his armor so that it tinted the white mark of a hand upon his chest scarlet. Unimpressed by this display, Truva sent the Orc tumbling into one of his approaching companions with a front kick to his chest, and swiftly dispatched both with a well-placed strike of her sword. Swinging the spear in wide arcs about her, Truva drove back the throng of advancing Orcs and remounted.

During the brief lull in fighting, Truva glanced across to the east across the river to see whether Éomer had sent any assistance – archers perhaps – only to observe an unfamiliar force making its way southward along the banks. She realized then that Saruman’s resources must be far larger than any of the Eorlingas scouts had anticipated, and that the Wizard had sent yet another force down the east side of the river in addition to the west. She cried out to Théodred, yet this development had not gone unnoticed by the Marshal, either, for he raised his horn to his lips and blew several short blasts.

“Retreat! Retreat!” he cried. “Eorlingas, retreat! Make for the Fords, and for Éomer’s reinforcements! Retreat!”

As Théodred continued to signal retreat, the Eorlingas struggled to comply, for a new flood of Uruk-hai had pressed forward across the trenches, and for each short interval the Riders fled they were drawn back some distance by the enemy’s attacks from behind. Truva found herself caught in a deadly ebb and flow, at times thrust ahead to forge a path for retreat, other times lagging in the rear to beat back the overwhelming flow of Uruks. Spear abandoned long ago and bow slung unminded across her chest, Truva swung desperately with her sword, and occasionally even resorted to drawing her dagger as the gruesome masses swarmed ever closer.

A seeming eternity passed before Théodred’s company came at last within sight of the Fords, and gained a clear view of the conflict on the opposite bank. With a flash of panic, Truva saw that Isengard’s eastern force was comprised not only of Uruk-hai, as the western force was, but of Men as well, many of whom rode astride giant wolf-like creatures. They raced with lengthy strides along the rocky riverside, bearing down with alacrity upon Éomer’s forces, and Truva hoped with what little freedom of consciousness remained that the Eorlingas defenses would hold, though she was too preoccupied with the foes that lay before her to do little else but hope.

“Truva!” Théodred cried in a voice laced with heretofore unknown desperation, “Hold this position! I will fall back to reinforce the east bank!”

Shocked by the sudden charge, Truva grasped with desperate fingers the ability to execute her task, duly leading the fighters who lingered on the western bank to lay cover for Théodred as he crossed through the shallow waters of the River Isen to support Éomer, though he succeeded only in gaining the eyot before encountering unsurpassable resistance. In her peripheral, Truva could see that Éomer’s Riders likewise struggled to suppress the onslaught of Isengard’s forces on the eastern side of the river.

It was at that very moment a hulking Uruk-hai knocked Truva off Bron with a jab of his pike to her chest, and as she lay upon the ground fighting from her back, Truva craned her neck and caught a glimpse of a horde of axe-wielding Dunlending men bearing down upon the small rise of the eyot where Théodred crouched. A savagery born of desperation overcame her then as she slayed first the Uruk-hai that had dismounted her, and subsequently any adversary that stood between her and her imperiled Marshal; yet even in her frenzy, a stillness fell over the scene as she observed two Orc-men raising their axes against Théodred.

The first blow landed.

It crumpled Théodred in an instant.

The second Orc-man’s axe hung in the air as Truva struggled through the water of the Ford. With one rapid jerk, Truva dislodged yet another spear that protruded from the riverbed and heaved it in the direction of the second Orc-man, striking him clean in the shoulder. He stumbled forward, turned to observe her for a fleeting moment, then returned to his original purpose.

His blow struck as cleanly as the first, leaving Théodred prostrate at the feet of his attackers. Truva beat her way across the remaining distance, driven by fury and harboring a complete disregard for her own safety, and once she gained the eyot it was but the work of a moment to dispose of the two Orc-men. Desperate to protect the unmoving figure of Théodred, neither the encroaching throngs of Uruk-hai nor the lurking Warg-riders intimidated Truva, so berserk with passion was she.

Due to the oblivious and wild nature aroused within her, Truva might have been hewn down as well had the reinforcements led by Elfhelm Marshal not arrived then. Called upon to follow the exiled riders to Fangorn Forest, the Marshal of the East-mark had known something was amiss when his scouts reported Warg-riders within Riddermark territory. He attacked then from the east, supplementing Éomer’s forces even as the core of Théodred’s riders fell back upon the eyot and rallied around their fallen leader.

Upon Elfhelm Marshal’s charge, all of Isengard’s forces retreated from both banks of the river, perhaps intimidated by the sudden swell in Eorlingas numbers, or perhaps content in the thought that they had slain the King’s son. Clusters of the newly arrived Riders pursued the enemy a great distance to ensure that they would not reappear for some time.

As the chaos gradually gave way to calm, all eyes turned to where Théodred lay upon the knoll in the middle of the eyot, struck down by the blades of the Orc-men yet alive still. With no enemy left to fight off, Truva collapsed to her knees beside her Marshal, and her sword fell unheeded from her fingers as they flew to his neck to confirm that his heart continued to beat. Her training took over as she raced through the field medicine techniques Éofa had taught her, assessing his wounds and working to staunch the uncontrollable flow of blood; yet a nearly imperceptible gesture of Théodred’s hand gave Truva pause, beckoning for her to bend close, and in doing so she heard but a faint breath escape from Théodred’s lips:

“Let me lie here—to keep the ford until my King comes!“

Truva shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the words from her ears, but her trembling hands that had worked across his body fell still, and her desperation only served to exacerbate the feeling of helplessness as she cradled his head and shoulders in her lap, and his breath grew increasingly shallow with each exhalation.

When Éomer waded through the shallow waters, all he saw were the storm clouds that darkened Truva’s brow and the rain of tears that streamed down her face. He crouched to check Théodred’s breathing, but he needn’t have, for Truva’s face spoke the news to him. Éomer knelt beside Truva as other Riders slowly gathered about in silence.

They remained there unmoving until the darkness of night began to give way to the faint dusk of predawn. Without a word, shovels were produced and several Eorlingas began to dig, the scrape of their shovels cutting awfully through the stillness. When they had dug deep enough, no other sound but the passing river could be heard. All Riders huddled around, and those who could not stand on the eyot itself held their place in the river, or upon its banks.

With an insurmountable feeling of insufficiency, Truva allowed the body of Théodred to be lifted away by Éomer, who placed it reverently within the grave. Her thoughts turned fleetingly to Théoden King of old, the kindly Man she had first met in the halls of Meduseld long ago, who would never have allowed his beloved son to be buried so far from home and the barrows of his forefathers. How the King they had left behind in Edoras would react, however, she did not wish to know – for she did not believe she could bear the heartbreaking indifference she suspected it would be.

Each Rider took their turn in entombing their Prince, placing dirt upon dirt and stone upon stone until the knoll had grown considerably in height. Still Truva sat, her legs unable to lift her, her hand unable to grasp the shovel offered to her; she could do nothing save stare blankly at the earth beneath which Théodred had disappeared.

Éomer hung his head as the silence deepened; then at last he gathered his courage with a deep breath and began to sing in his deep, sonorous voice a song in the language of the Eorlingas, which Truva now understood almost as easily as the Common Tongue, for it had been Théodred who taught her:

> _Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
>  Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
>  Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?  
>  Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?  
>  They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;  
>  The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.  
>  Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,  
>  Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?_

Line by line, more men lent their voices to this long-forgotten hymn of Eorl the Young, whose very blood had coursed through Théodred’s veins and whose spirit had burned fierce in the Prince’s heart. That so valiant a warrior should be buried with so little to remember him lay heavy in the minds of the Eorlingas gathered there, and as the last strains of the song were born away on the chill morning wind, a hush fell over them once more. Then at last they turned in ones and twos to tend to the others who had fallen, and to the tasks that could not be disregarded no matter the tragedies that haunted them.

The first wink of dawn had already streaked across the horizon before Éomer took Truva by the shoulders and physically lifted her to her feet, supporting her through the shallows of the Ford to the east bank of the river, where Éofa had erected her tent and set Bron on a picket line. Many of the company not occupied by their duties were sleeping – those that found it possible – while the remainder sat watch about the edges of camp or scouted the territory for lingering enemy troops.

Éomer lowered Truva to the ground, where she sat gazing unresponsive into the distance, her dazed expression reflected in a handful of similarly stunned recruits camped nearby. Once certain that his charges were settled, Éomer called Éofa and the Marshal Elfhelm briefly to his side and the three held a whispered conversation; and no sooner had they broken off than Éofa made ready his horse and took off with all speed southeast in the direction of Edoras.

Éomer watched his departing captain a few moments as Elfhelm went off to tend the wounded, then slowly turned to where Truva sat, listless and unheeding. He halfheartedly offered her some bread, much flattened in its travels, yet the Marshal knew from his own personal experience how absurd the idea of eating must be to her. Instead, he merely wrapped an arm about her shoulders and sat quietly, conveying his empathy through touch. To Truva, Éomer’s embrace was simultaneously suffocating and yet not nearly tight enough.

Éomer did not expect Truva to say anything, and she did not – for she could not. To accept the temporality of her own life in the Hidlands had been heartbreaking enough, yet to face the reality that she would be expected to continue her existence in the world while deprived of one whose significance superseded her own seemed unbearable; and she knew not whether she was awake or in some agonizing nightmare.


	9. Across the Plains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would foremost like to apologize to any subscribers whose inboxes might have experienced a deluge of update notifications this past week. The first wave of updates was due to minor errors and edits; I am not certain about AO3, but I had in all honesty quite forgotten FFN sends out a message for every minute change, and for that I apologize.
> 
> The second wave of updates was due to a much more significant reason. I have received quite a few suggestions from numerous sources with regard to the main character Truva, some of which were logical, many of which were directly contradictory, and one that, after much internal debate, I have decided to act upon.
> 
> Attribute to it what you will, yet despite having endured numerous situations which might reasonably result in it, Tolkien’s original characters exhibit very few – if any – effects of trauma. I initially approached this project from a similar standpoint, in that grief and hardship were to be met with indefatigable hope; Middle Earth is, after all, a fictional world in which all is right in the end.
> 
> That being said, I understand fanfiction is a wholly different construct, and that society’s understanding of trauma has evolved greatly since Tolkien’s time (and even more so since the nebulous era in which LotR is set). I therefore began brainstorming upon the advice of my beta, and included minor behaviors in Truva that could be attributed to (C)PTSD, yet it was not until I received further comments that requested more that I determined to go back and insert overt instances of trauma-related behavior. Even so, I did what I could to maintain Truva’s consonance with Tolkien’s world and characters.
> 
> Lastly, I strove to ensure that there would be limited incongruence for those who have already read this far and do not wish to return and read again the earlier chapters; I ask only that certain oddities might be dismissed should they surface. For any curious as to what specific changes have been made, do not hesitate to contact me and I would be happy to provide a list! I should also like to hope that, barring any major problems, this marks the end of any updates save those for new chapters.
> 
> _Further notes:_ From this chapter, the story converges for a time with Tolkien’s original works, as well as the film adaptations, and some passages – particularly dialogue – have been used for the sake of consistency. I claim no ownership of these passages.
> 
> _Author’s recommended listening:_ [Forsyth, Viola Concerto in G minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x78ArcxlrkM&list=PLs-CdRzhBW7vpEBf56CEVmFdmnZmoti3f&index=1&ab_channel=HartmutRohde-Topic) (I strongly encourage any and all readers to listen to Forsyth’s concerto, particularly the first movement, for it is not too distant in tone from Shore’s original composition for the movies.)  
>  _Alternatively, recommended ambiance:_ [Wheat fields of Burgas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4o87O4Pd_k&t=4179s&ab_channel=TheSilentWatcher)  
>   
> 

A single day passed in this manner: the Riders went about their necessary business, be it redoubling watch, scavenging supplies, or far flung scouts bringing news that the forces of Isengard were in full retreat; yet Truva and a great number of other recruits were unable to rouse themselves from the numbness of dearly obtained victory. Truva did not eat, slept in fits of mere minutes at a time, and could not be engaged.

Éomer recognized in her a shadow of his old self upon the conclusion of his first battle, after having lost many friends precious to him; and determined to do the only thing that he thought might help, he consulted with Elfhelm Marshal. Together they determined that a majority of the Riders would remain to guard the Fords, as a small company was sent further afield in search of straggling enemy forces. A task – any task, Éomer concluded – would at least serve to keep Truva and the others active, if not attentive.

Upon the second dawn after the battle at the Fords, Éomer set out with an entire _éored_ , tasked with sweeping along the Fangorn Forest, their original destination and the source of rumored Orc activity. Should their path remain clear, they would then traverse southward through the plains of the Mark before circling back to the Fords once more. It was a simple long-range scouting mission, and given the other Riders’ reports, it promised to be devoid of any significant trouble.

The first day passed uneventfully. Despite the excruciating ache in his own heart, Éomer had no other focus than the condition of his young recruits, whose sole sign of consciousness was their open eyes. It was Truva who concerned him especially, however, for she followed the party blindly, looking neither right nor left, only staring straight ahead, unseeing. She continued to refuse food, drank only when forced, and spoke not a word to anyone.

On the second day, the company encountered precisely that which they had sought, and which they had so desperately wished to avoid. As the Riders crossed the plains a few leagues south of the Entwood, two sharp-eyed scouts descended from a low rise and rapidly approached Éomer.

“A small party of Uruks, my lord,” said one, pointing straight east ahead of the _éored_.

“I would estimate nearly a hundred,” said the other. “They are making incredible time; never have I witnessed Orcs move so fast.”

“Their direction is northeast,” the first rider added.

“If that be true, it is unlikely they are any faction of the army we encountered at the Fords,” Éomer mused. “What could their aim possibly be? Regardless, our mission is clear.” He gave a low whistle to call the Riders to attention.

“Good news – if it may be said to be so!” he called. “To the east lies our quarry: those abominable creatures that have so brazenly crossed our lands for too long, whose brethren not three days ago hew down our brothers, and who have tormented our borders since the times of our fathers! We stalled Isengard’s forces at the Fords; let us now cut off their path from the east, and pursue these demons with the alacrity only our people and our horses know!”

A great cheer arose from the Riders as Éomer took a breath. “These brutes appear to be heading for the shelter of Fangorn. Let us ensure they never arrive! We shall divide in two: half will pursue the Uruks from behind, the other will cut off their path to the Forest. I need not tell you leave none alive, yet be cautious. Do not take unnecessary risks, for these Orcs appear physically superior even to those we encountered at the Fords. If our chase lasts into the night, fall back and pursue from a distance, for these are creatures that thrive on darkness; wait until morning and light to attack.”

With that, Éomer gave a rough shout and spurred his horse forward, angling slightly southward. The Riders followed behind, dividing themselves between Éomer and his captain who turned north toward the Forest, and some small drop of Truva’s listlessness dissipated in the anticipation of more fighting when the Marshal motioned for her to accompany him.

They rode hard, the golden grass flying beneath the hooves of their mounts and their breath coming in short bursts, and soon the distant black smudges of the Uruks were within sight of all. The Eorlingas’ speed redoubled, yet the Orcs had clearly caught wind of them, for their speed also increased, even as several of the slighter Orcs began to fall behind. As Éomer and his Riders gained, they could see the Orcs glancing back in panic, drawing their bows and shooting wildly in an attempt to keep the horsemen at a distance.

A tiny flame ignited within Truva, and it seemed to her that the closer she approached the pack of Orcs the more intense her wrath became, fending off her listlessness and billowing until it developed into an uncontainable blaze. She saw in these beasts the same evil that had hewn Théodred down; and the same base selfishness, the same disregard for humanity that Dregant had reveled in – whose unspeakable acts flashed before her eyes even now, mingling with the vision of Théodred being hewn down by the axes of the Orc-men, and her rage grew all the more.

Truva pulled her bow from behind and drew an arrow. She was not nearly as sharp-eyed as the native Eorlingas, and she struggled to hit a target even when standing upon firm ground, yet before her was a perfect opportunity to test her skills. She laid a calm hand upon Bron, who did not slow yet his strides grew smooth and long. Slowly, deliberately, Truva nocked an arrow to the bowstring and drew it back with breath held, fixing a trailing Orc in her sights, and let loose the string.

Her shaft fell far short, more a threat to the Riders than the Orcs. “Helm!” Truva cursed quietly to herself, the fury within her mounting further as she drew another arrow. This, too, failed to strike any target, though it fell amidst the fleeing pack. It was not until her fifth attempt that Truva was met with any success; an Orc fell tumbling to the ground, tripping up another that came behind it, who in turn was dispatched by an Eorlingas that rode beside Truva.

The Riders pulled ever closer, picking off Orcs one by one, yet daylight was fast fading. Peaks of the Misty Mountains pierced the bottom of the sun now, like teeth threatening to swallow it whole. The forest lay as an ominous dark haze upon the horizon, offering a hint of shelter to the Orcs and a sense of dismay to the Riders. Éomer spurred his horse to even greater speeds.

The second company of Riders then came into view ahead, and the Orcs swung eastward in response, hoping to evade this new threat. The distance that lay between them was still too great, however, and there was a great doubt as to whether the Riders would succeed in intercepting the Orcs before they reached the refuge of Fangorn, for all parties were driven by wild desperation.

The sun had just sunk fully behind the horizon when the orcs mounted a small knoll just beyond the tree line, only to find that the two pincers of Eorlingas had encircled all but the eastern side of the hill. The Orcs dashed in this direction, but their path was cut off by arrows from the riders, soon reinforced by the riders themselves. The Orcs retreated to the very crest of the knoll, just beyond the range of the bows of the Riders, who hung back at the hill’s foot, remembering Éomer’s warning.

As their surroundings turned from the blood-red of sunset to blackness of night, the Eorlingas stationed themselves in an impenetrable ring around the knoll. They gathered wood and lit fires to confuse the Orcs’ excellent night vision, though they did not linger beside these fires, clear targets for the Orcs as they were.

A rigorous watch was set and unprecedentedly long hours of the night passed tensely. Aside from a brief skirmish in the wee hours of the night, the riders remained quiet, pacing anxiously or tending their mounts, finding any way to occupy themselves during the time in which sleep would not come. Over the quietude, the sound of guttural voices that emanated from the hilltop reached their ears, signs of what the Riders hoped were heated arguments that would leave the Orcs dispirited – or perhaps even fewer in number – come morning.

Come morning did: a faint, washed out dawn of late winter. The Eorlingas perched upon their mounts, muscles taut and jaws clenched, awaiting whatever signal was to come. Before Éomer called them to action, however, Truva heard an unexpected rustling from their rear. When she turned, she witnessed another pack of Orcs, a few score perhaps, emerging from the Forest.

“Reinforcements! From the north!” she cried with all the might of her lungs. When other Riders turned to look, the Orcs upon the hill took their distraction as an opportunity to charge. The entire knoll erupted into chaotic violence, the whistle of arrows from both holding strong at first until they closed in on each other.

Truva loosed several arrows in the direction of the rapidly approaching reinforcements behind her, then turned and held aloft her spear in preparation for the charge of the Uruk-hai close at hand. Rage surged within Truva as the snarling, contorted faces of the enemy drew near, as she heard their growls and barks and saw their eyes narrowed in anger or fear, she knew not which; yet any wrath they might have harbored surely paled in comparison to that which Truva herself suffered.

She drove away the foremost advancing ranks, parting the Orcs with her spear in defense of Bron more than her own self. Those few that made it past her spear were dispatched by sword, until the melee grew so tumultuous that Truva discarded the spear entirely and relied solely on her blade. She fought senselessly, disregarding caution and throwing herself unheeding into the masses that intermingled with the Eorlingas warriors in a deadly churn of blade and blood.

The Uruks’ power was unparalleled, far stronger and faster than those that had fought at the Fords; yet despite the surprising might of their foes, and despite being slightly outnumbered, the Eorlingas fought with a fury born of grief. At the Fords, they had fought desperately to protect the people of the Mark – now, they fought for revenge.

It was not long ere the Riders had scattered the Orcs, who fled in all directions in ones and threes as the horsemen chased after them and cut them down. Though a small group nearly made it to the Forest, Éomer and Truva ensured that none would escape alive that day.

When the chaos had settled, Éomer surveyed their losses. The Riders had slaughtered more than one hundred and fifty Orcs, yet in doing so they had lost fifteen dear souls of their own, and thus it was with a sense of renewed grief that Éomer dismounted, followed by the others. In silence, they gathered the bodies of their fallen brethren and bore them with dignity to the edge of the Entwood, and when their work was done the land wore a crown of fifteen spears.

No words were said, for the hearts of the Eorlingas were weary from sorrow.

The carcasses of their enemy they proceeded to pile upon the hill, marking it in no other way than with the greatest Orc’s severed head impaled upon one of their crude pikes; and when all traces of the creatures had been collected, Éomer set the heap alight. The Riders watched the flames for quite some time, for the fire in their hearts burned likewise, then they departed one by one to set up camp in the fading light of day – a good distance away from the acrid stench of burning Orc-flesh.

Truva served her part in gathering firewood, cautioned by the ancient tales of the Riddermark to collect only that which had already fallen, and afterward she gratefully accepted from the cooks the meager fare they had contrived from what few supplies were available. Upon making her way to the edge of camp where she had picketed Bron, Truva noticed Éomer rubbing the horse down with back turned to her.

“I have already rubbed him down, you know,” she said. “Twice.”

“Trust you to supersede your duties,” he replied, transitioning to Bron’s glossy mane where he began to weave intricate braids. “He is such a steadfast companion, and deserves our utmost attention.”

Truva took a seat on a patch of lush grass. “I would have brought your dinner had I known you would be here.”

“I have eaten,” said Éomer, though Truva knew it not to be true. Like herself, she had not observed her Marshal eat since the Fords, and even in ordinary times he always saw to it that his charges ate first. “It is good to see you with food,” he continued.

“One must eat, after all,” said Truva as she pushed the assorted mushrooms and leafy greens about her bowl, though she did not bring them to her mouth. Éomer finished a braid and sat beside Truva upon the ground.

“Do you know the legend of Helm Hammerhand?” he asked after a beat.

“I have endured a great many lectures regarding the deeds of our ninth King of the Mark, yet whether they included the specific legend you speak of, I know not,” she answered.

“I suppose you have heard that some thousand or so years ago, our lands were besieged by the Dunlendings led by Wulf son of Freca, and the Corsairs of Umbar. In a situation not wholly dissimilar to our present circumstances, Helm and his forces were defeated at the Fords of Isen and fell back to the defenses of Hornburg.”

“I have learned insomuch,” said Truva, nodding. “The King’s elder son, Prince Haleth, subsequently fell defending Edoras from Wulf.”

“And when those trapped in Hornburg became at a loss for food in the winter, Helm’s younger son, Háma Prince, went out foraging and was lost in a blizzard.”

“That is a good summation of my teachings,” said Truva.

“Did you hear it drove him crazy?” asked Éomer. Truva’s head snapped up. “Oh yes,” continued Éomer, “Mad with grief at the loss of his two sons, oft Helm King would blow the great war-horn and throw himself among the Dunlendings and kill them with his bare hands.”

“Is that why it is called Hornburg?”

“Yes; originally dubbed Súthburg, it was due to the fear the sounding horn struck into the hearts of Eorlingas enemies that the fortress was renamed Hornburg.”

“What became of the King?”

“One night when rage overtook him, he blew the horn and stormed from the castle to attack the enemy. He did not return. They found him the next morning, frozen upright as if still fighting; they say his spirit still roams the plains of the Mark to this very day.”

The two of them fell silent for a while, each with their individual thoughts.

“Why do you tell me this?” Truva asked eventually.

“It is the belief of the Eorlingas that the spirit of royalty, having fallen in battle, will wander our lands until his horse is buried beside him, at which point his spirit will ride off into eternity. Now, being renowned for fighting with naught but his fists, having no steed to be buried beside him, and being tied to the land by grief as he was, Helm’s spirit lingers.

“The notion that Théodred’s spirit has joined that of Helm – at least for a time – and that they were with us even this very day in battle, brings me some solace,” he continued, “And I hope that it might perhaps do the same for you.”

Truva considered the Marshal’s words for quite some time, for though she understood their meaning, she could not feel their spirit. Even so, looking into his grave face she could see Éomer expected some response that belied the hopelessness that settled into the crevices of her mind. “I hope that Théodred’s stallion lives for many more years,” she said.

Éomer summoned a wan smile that quickly disappeared once more, and it took him several breaths to continue. “It was also grief that drove Helm to his death — grief, and the rage born of it. Truva, I would not see you follow the same path; do not allow the darkness that I know you must feel to consume you as it did him.”

Truva stared at her Marshal then, for she was truly at a loss for words. The fury she had endured at the Fords, and the fire that had subsequently sparked in her heart still smouldered, ready at the slightest gust of wind to flame up once more. It was these embers that had kept her alive in the Hidlands, yet now she felt as though they had grown beyond her control.

Éomer examined her face and, certain that his point had been made, laid a hand upon her shoulder before rising and departing without another word. Truva settled in for another restless night without even troubling to pitch her tent.

Despite the early hour she arose the following morning, having abandoned all hope of rest, there were others already about breaking camp and preparing for a new day. It seemed as though the entire company was as restless as Truva. The sun had not completely surpassed the horizon before they rode out across the hillock-strewn plains.

They rode all morning, traveling further east and toward the Wold, though there were whispers that Éomer Marshal intended to swing south come afternoon, for their skirmish with the Uruk-hai was concerning, and he worried still for the forces that remained at the Fords. It was as they passed over a slight rise, the sun nearly stretching to its zenith overhead, that a shout rang out from behind the Eorlingas.

“What news from the north, Riders of Rohan?”

Already on edge from recent events, the Riders were startled by this unanticipated hailing and immediately wheeled about to face its source. There, seemingly sprung from nowhere, stood a Man, garbed in rugged leather rather much the worse for wear. Two other figures flanked him – one slightly taller and one considerably shorter – all bearing light green cloaks that perfectly concealed them amongst the surrounding land, yet even as Truva peered closer the colors of the fabric seemed to shift almost imperceptibly.

As the Eorlingas approached, the three figures shifted out into the open and the Riders surrounded them guardedly, for their origin was wholly unclear. They were certainly not Orcs sent either by Saruman or Mordor, nor were they Eorlingas, for the Man spoke in the Common Tongue; nor did they sport the raiment of Gondor to the south, though in recent years the two nations’ allyship had grown strained, and long it had been since livery bearing the White Tree was last seen in the Mark.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?” Éomer demanded.

“I am called Strider,” the one who had initially called out replied. “I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs.”

“That is no name for a man that you give. And strange too is your clothing. Are you Elvish folk?” Éomer interrogated them.

“No,” the Man replied, “But one of us is an Elf: Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood.”

Truva stared open-mouthed, and the unshakable, oppressive gloom she had endured of late was dispelled ever so slightly by her amazement; for Men alone populated the Mark, as were they the exclusive inhabitants of the Hidlands – and the latter’s most common visitor, though Dwarves were not unknown to make an appearance. An Elf, however—! From an early age, Truva had half determined that the existence of Elves was no more than a myth, and though her experiences since had taught her otherwise, to see such a being standing before her very eyes left her astounded.

“And the one of short stature?” Éomer commanded.

“Give me your name, horse master, and I shall give you mine!” said the Dwarf, and Truva frowned at his impertinence. She harbored no love for Dwarves, who came most often to the Hidlands in search of precious rock that could be found nowhere else. The price of their desired treasure was so exorbitant that the most practical way to pay for it was through slaves, and thus Dwarf traders had become the largest supplier of human livestock sourced from beyond the Valley.

She watched with unease as Éomer dismounted to confront the trio. “I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.” Not a single sound emanated from the Riders, wary as they were of these suspicious figures, yet Truva knew each Eorlingas to be inwardly chuckling.

“He does not stand alone,” interjected the Elf. “You would die before your stroke fell!” In an instant he had notched an arrow to the string drawing his bow menacingly, with the Marshal’s face fixed at its point, and the Dwarf likewise raised his axe in anticipation of trouble.

The Eorlingas reacted in kind, and the sound of their spears clacking together was that of a sudden rainstorm upon parched earth, and more than one blade was drawn. A bolt of electricity shot through the Riders. The audacity of these travelers to traverse their lands and fail to properly identify themselves, spitting insults instead!

The Man who called himself Strider leaped between the two factions. “Your pardon, horse lord. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?”

“I will, but first tell me your right name.”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the heir of Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor,” he said. Truva’s interest was piqued at this long-winded introduction, for it sounded familiar; and as repulsive as she found the memory she hearkened back to her many lessons with Gríma, yet it was with repeated frustration that she failed to recall in what context she had heard such titles.

“The Orcs whom we pursue took captive two of my friends,” the Man Aragorn son of Arathorn continued. “What tidings can you tell us?”

The previous night flooded suddenly back to the memory of all Riders present, for surely the Uruk-hai they had encountered then were the party these three sought. Such thinking must have occurred to Éomer, as well, for he responded somewhat coldly, “Then you need not pursue them further. The Orcs are destroyed.”

“And our friends?” asked the Dwarf.

“We found none but Orcs,” said Éomer.

“Were there no bodies other than those of Orc-kind?” The Elf asked. “Our friends were Hobbits.”

“They would be small, only children to your eyes,” added Aragorn.

“Hobbits?” said Éomer. “And what may they be? It is a strange name.”

Truva, however, nearly gasped audibly when understanding dawned upon her. She bent toward her Marshal and spoke in Eorling as surreptitiously as possible, “I think he means Halflings, my lord.”

Halflings, like Elves, were yet another race she had only heard tales of, and who were practically unknown in the Mark, yet to think that they had unwittingly brought about the destruction of beings so slight made her quiver.

“Halflings!” Éomer shook his head. “Your friends may have been slain or buried among the Orcs, but I do not think this is so. If they were attired as you are, perhaps they evaded our sight and passed us by. That is your only hope.”

He gave a sharp whistle and the horses of two riders who had fallen the previous night trotted forward. “Hasufel, and Arod; may these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell.”

Truva cleared her throat suggestively as Éomer passed the reins to the trio, whispering aside to him, “My lord, would you send them alone to confirm the fate of their friends?”

“We have more pressing matters,” the Marshal replied shortly.

“Be that as it may, if the result of our transgressions were the deaths of these Halflings, would it not be the least we could do to accompany them and take accountability for our misdeeds?”

Éomer gazed intensely at her for a moment, his eyes shifting between his recruit and the three travelers. “In that case, Truva, you are to go with them,” he said to her, then louder to Aragorn, “If you can accommodate an addition – though in our desperate straits I can spare no other.”

“I think it would greatly delay our progress to take on a compani—”

“You have two steeds, and one of our finest warriors to assist you,” said Éomer, ignoring the Man’s protest. He then murmured a few words to Aragorn, and there seemed to be some agreement between the two, for Aragorn nodded and Éomer turned to Firefoot and remounted, then motioned for Truva to approach.

“Watch these strangers carefully and determine their purpose, if you can,” he said in a low voice. “If you deem them trustworthy, do all within your power to see whether they might return with you and be of some assistance to us in these dangerous days. Yet a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf? That is strange company, and it speaks of something larger amiss. Use discretion in determining what information you share with them.”

Truva nodded as the Marshal wheeled his horse around. “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope,” he called out to the three travelers. “It has forsaken these lands. We ride now!”

With that, Éomer peeled away and steered his course southward, followed by the remaining Eorlingas. As their figures grew smaller in the distance, chased by a cloud of dust raised by the thundering horses’ hooves, Truva could not help but feel slightly betrayed, as though her leader had abandoned her and placed upon her sole responsibility for the atrocity they had possibly committed.

She dismounted and approached the three strangers. “I am called Truva,” she said by way of introduction, accompanied by a short bow. “I am sorry our fates align at this most unfortunate juncture.”

“You have heard our names,” Aragorn said, “Save the Dwarf Gimli, son of Glóin.” His words were cold, yet he bowed politely in return.

“You needn’t fear me hindering your search,” Truva said in an attempt to reassure the party, for the more quickly they grew comfortable with her, the more opportunity she would find to withdraw information from them.

“Strange of you to say,” commented Gimli, “As you have already done so.”

“Not as strange as a company composed of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf,” retorted Truva, surprising even herself in how quickly her mild manner dissipated; she attributed it to her disaffection for the Dwarf’s people, and to the mood that continued to cloud her mind ever since the events at the Fords.

“As strange as a female Eorlingas warrior?” Legolas interjected.

“Her Highness Lady Éowyn, the very sister-daughter of the King herself, is a fierce shieldmaiden – it is not so strange as you would have it thought,” said Truva defensively, struggling to control herself, for she knew a combative attitude would not be conducive to the task Éomer had set upon her. She then continued before the others could insult her further, “I can lead you directly to the battle site, and swiftly.”

“You had best do that,” said Aragorn as he mounted the dark-gray horse Hasufel that had been provided him by Éomer. Truva watched in amusement as the Elf deftly mounted Arod before struggling to pull the Dwarf up behind him; though Arod, typically fiery, bore these antics with patience all the while. Of all the numerous things Truva had seen in her life, an Elf and a Dwarf upon a horse of the Mark was surely the most peculiar.

Without another word, Truva turned Bron about and led the company at a quick clip back the way the Eorlingas had come. They traveled in silence, and late morning had not long turned to early afternoon before signs of smoke rose skyward from the hills before them, for the pile of carcasses still sent its noxious fumes aloft. Seeing this sign, Aragorn increased his pace then, drawing ahead of the others.

From behind, Truva was at last able to thoroughly observe the three strangers without being subject to scrutiny herself. The Dwarf was identical to the few others she had seen, short in both stature and temperament. She could not discern where his mane-like hair ended and his face began, and wondered how Dwarves told individuals apart, or whether they even could.

The Elf intrigued her a great deal, for every time she attempted to focus her attention upon him, it seemed as though her eyes slid unconsciously away. She found it impossible to observe him clearly, and he appeared to her as a hazy conception rather than discrete figure – though even a mere glance was sufficient to demonstrate that he was one of the fairest beings she had ever encountered.

Yet it was the unassuming figure of the Man that her thoughts consistently circled back to, and though she scoured her memories for when she might have heard his name, it was quite some time and quite some distance that passed ere it occurred to her.

“Thorongil!” she exclaimed loudly.

Aragorn whipped around in his saddle. “How is it that you know that name?” he demanded.

“It is you, is it not? The mysterious Ranger of the North who served Thengel, our fifteenth King of the Mark.”

“Well you know your history,” said the Elf.

“But it was only rumours that he was a Man of such noble kin, and he walked among us nigh on fifty years ago; even so, the annals spoke of you then as a man full-grown,” Truva continued, perplexed. “And yet you appear now as though you have not so much as passed as many winters as I.”

“Aragorn is no ordinary man,” Gimli said gruffly, “Though I do not see how it is any business of yours!”

Truva begrudged the Dwarf his curt conclusion to the matter and fell briefly into a resentful silence, though she did not allow it to discourage her for long, for Éomer’s words were foremost in her mind. “By what road did you come into these lands?” she asked.

Aragorn seemed to weigh her question in his mind, perhaps determining how much to reveal, before answering. “We set out from Imladris many weeks ago. With us went Boromir of Minas Tirith. My errand was to go to that city with the son of Denethor, to aid his folk in their war against Sauron. But the Company that I journeyed with had other business. Of that I cannot speak now.”

A few of the names and places were vaguely familiar to Truva – the Elven city of Rivendell not the least of which intrigued her – yet that was not the most noteworthy point of the Man’s speech to her. “You say you chase Orcs and seek to oppose Sauron. Who is it that you serve?”

“I serve no man,” said Aragorn. Rebuffed once more by the strangers’ brevity, Truva considered altering tack; perhaps she might induce them to reveal more if she herself made an overture of trust.

“The Mark likewise does not pay tribute to those dark mountains. Some years ago the Lord of the Black Land wished to purchase horses of us at a great price, but we refused him, for he puts beasts to evil use. Then he sent plundering Orcs, and they carried off what they could, choosing always the black horses: few of these are now left. For that reason, our feud with the Orcs is bitter.”

“We have grim tidings, then,” said Gimli. “At least eight of those horses were washed away to their deaths ere we reached Rivendell.”

Truva choked back a cry. “Washed away?”

“I am afraid it is as you say; the Dark Lord bends good creatures to his will,” said Aragorn with a hint of regret. “We encountered great evil upon our journey, and the horses of Rohan bore that evil.”

Truva fell into despondent silence at this news, for many of the horses snatched away by the Orcs were those she had assisted Éomód in raising within King’s own stables; bright, friendly creatures whose connection with the Eorlingas ran deep into their hearts. It was Éomer’s orders alone that prevented her from reverting back into her reticent nature, and drove her to pursue the conversation further; it was her duty glean as much information as she could in as little time as possible, for she knew not how long she would remain in the presence of this company.

“Our chief concern lies with Saruman,” said Truva. “He has claimed lordship over all this land, and there has been rising tension between Isengard and the Mark for many years. Not a week has transpired since we lost a great many men in battle with his forces, including Lord and Marshal Théodred, heir to the throne. The dark wizard has taken Orcs into his service, and Warg-riders and evil Men; we fear an alliance between Orthanc and the Dark Tower, leaving us vulnerable to being beset from both east and west.”

Aragorn remained silent, so Truva pressed further. “If it is true that you are who you claim, Thorongil, as you once served the Mark, will you not lend succor again in these desperate times? When we find your Halfling friends, will you not ascend once again the stairs of Meduseld, or is it in vain that we hope you have been sent to us in our greatest hour of need?”

“I will come when I may,” said Aragorn, unerringly curt yet mannerly in all his answers. Truva felt as though she had reached an impasse. She dared not mention how Éomer had ridden out at the head of his _éored_ absent the blessing of the King, that he and all who followed were outcasts, that the darkness which lay over the lands of the Mark came not only from without, but from within as well.

The silence that followed was not broken by any of the four riders even as they topped the last ridge near the edge of Fangorn Forest, from which the location of the skirmish came into view. Arargorn spurred his horse to a full gallop and the others followed, barreling down the slope and arriving at the knoll within minutes.

True to Éomer’s words, the entire area was clear save the vile mass of Uruk-hai carcasses, which continued to smoulder. Though the smell revolted Truva and caused her stomach to churn, she was second to dismount behind Aragorn only; and she was quick to draw her sword, using it to examine the tangle of limbs and twisted torsos, crude weapons and darkened mail, searching for any hint of something that was not of Orcish origin.

“What do they look like, your Halfling friends?” she asked as the Elf lent grace to the Dwarf’s fall from Arod.

“They are about so high,” said Legolas, holding up his hand to a height slightly below that of the Dwarf’s head. “With golden locks that curled. They seem as small boys.”

“They were wearing dark breeches and light shirts, in addition to the cloaks of Elven make,” Aragorn added. Truva frowned; everything within sight was black and filthy. Surely one of the Riders would have spoken had they encountered something so unusual, she thought to herself.

The overcast afternoon transitioned to evening and shadows lengthened, yet still no trace of the Halflings had they found when the sky grew so dark they could no longer see. Forced to abandon the day’s search, the strange companions made camp beneath the eaves of Fangorn and huddled about a small fire of collected wood, careful not to anger the spirits of the Forest yet irreverent to the presence of any Orcs that might be lurking.

As soon as the land began to show hints of growing light following morning, Aragorn bent immediately to the task of tracking the Halflings without so much as pausing for breakfast, undeterred by their fruitless search the previous day. He began in the area around their campfire, limiting the likelihood that he would disturb any signs with his own tracks, then slowly circled toward the pile of Orc carcasses with face so near the ground his nose must certainly have brushed it on occasion.

The others followed immediately, dividing the area between them, yet after a short while Truva came to understand her relative inexperience rendered her somewhat useless. She turned her focus instead to the three companions, observing their methodology to see what she might learn. Aragorn was most particular in his actions, and thus it was he she was regarding when the Ranger suddenly stood straight and called out, “Here at last we find news!”

They all gathered about him at this call, only to observe a golden leaf held delicately in his fingers. Its origin must certainly have been a tree beyond the borders of the Mark, for Truva did not recognize its kind at all.

“A mallorn-leaf of Lórien!” exclaimed Legolas, and in looking about upon the ground, he added, “And crumbs of lembas bread!”

“And cut rope!” the Dwarf cried, picking up a few short lengths from a nearby thicket of grass. “They must have been bound and found the means to cut them!”

Aragorn proceeded eastward to the river Entwash, following the faintest of signs invisible to Truva, until there, upon the sandy bank of the river, lay a set of small footprints clear enough for all to see. These tracks he followed straight to the edge of Entwood.

“One hobbit at least stood here for a while and looked back,” said Aragorn, “And then he turned away into the forest.”

Gimli looked none too pleased with this assessment. “I do not like the look of this Fangorn; and we were warned against it.”

“I do not think the wood feels evil, whatever tales may say,” countered the Elf.

“The Eorlingas do not say the forest is inherently evil,” said Truva, “Yet it necessitates caution. The trees are old, older than our existence here, and they harbor things unknown.”

“I catch only the faintest echoes of dark places where the hearts of the trees are black,” said Legolas. “There is something happening inside, or going to happen. Do you not feel the tenseness? It takes my breath.”

Indeed, even upon the edge of the Forest Truva felt as though she were struggling to inhale very thin air, not entirely dissimilar from when Éomer made the recruits run training exercises in the White Mountains; yet those mountains lay at a significantly higher altitude than where the company currently stood.

Sensing where their path lay, Truva untethered Bron so that he would have a wider area to graze should their task take longer than expected, and the others did likewise. She felt reassured in the knowledge that they could easily find their way back home to Edoras if need be. With one last affectionate rub of Bron’s nose, Truva turned to face the ominous forest.

Aragorn was first to dive in amongst the bramble at the tree line, followed closely by the others. A single step plunged them from day into nighttime; ashes and beeches bent so close overhead they wove a tapestry that light did not penetrate, and walking along the stream was as walking through a tunnel. The only blossom that graced the tangled branches was a thick, gloomy mist that draped from tree to tree, rendering it impossible to see any distance ahead at all.

The four had walked only a short way before Aragorn spied more footprints along the sandy banks of the stream. “This is good tidings!” he said, “Yet it seems that at this point the hobbits left the water-side.”

The Ranger turned and followed more signs that mystified Truva, and he struggled through thick brambles and the occasional hidden trickle of a stream off the Entwash. The progress of the group grew excruciatingly slow as they forged forward in such a fashion for a time, their path taking them northwest toward the Misty Mountains as the air grew closer all the while.

Their heads bent to the ground, it took the small band by surprise when the dense trees suddenly opened onto a small clearing, through the middle of which an arm of the mountains ran down to create a steep, rocky shelf. Just within the clearing, Truva noticed a prone figure and rushed to its side, only to draw back in disgust. “How vile!” she cried.

The others came up behind her to behold the body of a dead Orc, contorted beyond any possibility of recognition.

“A bit squished,” remarked the Dwarf.

“I truly believed the Eorlingas had eliminated each and every Orcs we confronted,” said Truva. “Perhaps this is one from the second party that assaulted us from the north, slunk off from his brethren in fear before the battle even began.”

“I do not think it wise to burn such a corpse here,” said the Elf.

“No, it is best we leave it be,” said Aragorn. “This forest has its own burial rites.”

They turned then to the rocky projection that jutted through the surrounding forest. Legolas approached first, leaping nimbly up ledge-like outcrops to the top, where he stood in the watery sunshine and breathed in deeply. Truva and Gimli scrambled up behind him, though Aragorn was slow to follow.

“I am almost sure that the hobbits have been up here,” he said, “But there are other marks, very strange marks, which I do not understand.” He continued to look about as the other three enjoyed the freer air and gazed out above the canopy, Truva toward the rolling grasslands of her home, Legolas and Gimli eastward to the great Anduin.

“Look!” called Legolas, his voice low yet sharp. The other three quickly turned to observe what the Elf indicated to them.

“Look at what? Where? I have not elf-eyes,” grumbled the Dwarf.

“Down in the wood, back the way we have just come,” said Legolas in hushed tones. “It is he. Cannot you see him, passing from tree to tree?”

Truva followed his extended finger, and a figure came into sight, clad in gray and wearily making its way through the forest, leaning upon a staff. Something stirred in Truva’s memory; this figure – cloaked as he was, with a hat that obscured his face perched upon his head – reminded her of some long-forgotten image. Quite suddenly, she recalled the dream she had many years ago, of the white stallion and the old man who rode away upon it. Could this be the same man? He did not seem to notice the company’s presence, and yet his pace quickened as he approached the rocky outcrop where they stood.

“It is Saruman!” Gimli hissed, raising his axe tightly in his fists. “Do not let him speak, or put a spell upon us! Shoot first!”

Shocked from her reverie, Truva drew her sword halfway from its sheath, for dreams and reality grew muddled before her eyes; yet if this figure was indeed Saruman as the Dwarf insisted, Truva was determined that it be her to strike the dark wizard down, for revenge in the name of her fallen compatriots weighed heavily in her mind. She gripped her sword hilt with white knuckles.

Legolas held his bow loosely, but Aragorn did not even reach for his blade. “We may not shoot an old man so, at unawares and unchallenged, whatever fear or doubt be upon us. Watch and wait!”

“Saruman is no ordinary old man,” warned Truva. “If it be truly him, to catch the Wizard unawares might be our only hope.”

By that time, however, the old man’s speed had brought him to the bottom of the ledge, not so distant from their own position. “Well met indeed, my friends!” he said, turning his face upward, though his features remained hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his wide hat. The four lost all hope of gaining the upper hand through the element of surprise.

“I wish to speak to you,” continued the man. “Will you come down, or shall I come up?”

“Might we know your name, and then hear what it is that you have to say to us?” said Aragorn, drawing his sword at last.

“My name!” said the old man, with a quiet laugh. “Have you not guessed it already?”

“Saruman!” shouted Gimli as the old man bounded up the stone with an alacrity that would have put Elves to shame. Gimli raised his axe to strike, but it swung off into nothingness; the sword hilt in Truva’s hand burned so hot that she could not draw it fully, and looking to Aragorn she saw that he had likewise dropped his blade in pain. An arrow Legolas let fly burst into flame as it hurtled toward the figure.

The old man leaped upon a low, flat stone and cast off his gray cloak, revealing beneath it robes of purest white. He seemed to grow in size, looming tall above the four, wrapped in a mist of blinding white light. They stood motionless as breathless moments slipped by.

“Gandalf!” Aragorn whispered at last, unbelieving.

“Gandalf,” said the old man, his voice traced with confusion as though he were attempting to recall it himself. “Yes, that was the name. I was Gandalf.”

“But you are all in white!” exclaimed Gimli.

“Yes, I am White now,” the old man laughed. “I have passed through fire and deep water, since we parted. I have forgotten much that I thought I knew, and learned again much that I had forgotten. But tell me of yourselves! I see that we have a new companion in our midst,” he said, turning his attention to Truva.

“I am Truva, shieldmaiden of the Mark,” Truva said, and bowed hesitantly, for by his own confession he was not the Wizard Saruman, yet still she was unsure of his identity.

“Is that so,” said Gandalf, “Truva.” He seemed to muse upon her name for a moment, and Truva was certain she caught a glimpse of a twinkle in his eye and a shadow of a smile upon his lips as he turned back to the other three. “Now what of your journey?”

Aragorn cast a glance askance at Truva, then launched into a guarded story of places she had only ever heard of in passing – a wondrous story that included Elves and Hobbits and other such strange folk. Though Truva did not understand a great deal, it confirmed to her that they had traveled a great distance, finding themselves ever at odds with the forces of Isengard and Mordor.

“But the Hobbits!” the Dwarf interrupted, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. “We have come far to seek them, and you seem to know where they are. Where are they now?”

“With Treebeard and the Ents,” replied Gandalf, and Truva gasped audibly. Oft she had requested of Théodred and Éomód to hear the tales of Fangorn, intrigued as she was by the Ents that legend held played shepherd to the trees within its furthest depths; yet to hear from this man that their existence was no mere legend was electrifying, nor was she the only one among the band to feel so.

“Ents!” exclaimed Legolas. “Even among Elves they are only a memory. If I were to meet one still walking in this world, then indeed I should feel young again!”

“I hope indeed that you may yet meet them, but not now,” said Gandalf. “The morning is wearing away. We mustn’t tarry.”

“Do we go to find our friends and to see Treebeard?” asked Aragorn.

“No,” said Gandalf. “That is not the road we must take. Our friends are safe, but war is upon us. We must go to Edoras and seek out Théoden in his Hall. The light of Andúril must now be uncovered in the battle for which it has so long awaited.”

“We will set out with you, but it is a long way for a man to walk, young or old,” said Gimli.

“We have but three steeds,” said Aragorn by way of explanation.

“Is that so? We shall see, we shall see,” said Gandalf, as he wrapped himself again in his gray raiment and led the company wordlessly back along the Entwash to the edge of Fangorn, but to their great surprise not even steadfast Bron lingered beneath the trees, though they had been gone but half the day. Truva felt panic well up inside her as she looked about the empty fields, for surely this spoke of foul play!

“It shall be a weary walk,” said Aragorn.

“I shall not walk. Time presses,” said Gandalf. He paused momentarily, emitting a low, melodic whistle, followed by an equally entrancing high note. He continued to do so until far in the distance four horses could be seen bounding across the fields.

“Bron!” Truva cried, immediately recognizing her companion amidst the others.

“Hasufel!” said Legolas with joy. “And there is my friend Arod beside him. But there is another that strides ahead: a very great horse. I have not seen his like before.”

“Nor will you again,” said Gandalf as they drew near, Bron sauntering up to Truva to investigate whether she had returned with any treats for him; and though her attention was primarily devoted to her own steed, she could not help but look in amazement upon the glorious horse that bent in greeting to Gandalf – for she recognized it as the crowning jewel of Théoden King’s stables, who had mysteriously disappeared but a few months prior.

“That is Shadowfax,” said Gandalf. “He is the chief of the Mearas, lord of the horses. Does he not shine like silver, and run as smoothly as a swift stream?”

It was in that very instant Truva grew certain her dream of years ago had been a reflection of the man that stood before her now, and that the horse had been none other than Shadowfax – though the meaning of the dream remained obscure to her. She stared openly at Gandalf, who winked surreptitiously without ever fully turning to meet her eyes.

“Time presses, my friends,” he said, mounting his illustrious horse. “Let us make straight for Edoras, riding as swift as we may!”

With that, the riders took off south through the rolling swaths of grass, the sun that drifted upon their right slowly traversing across the sky towards its bed behind the Misty Mountains.


	10. Strangers in Edoras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Mendelssohn, Hebrides Overture](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJt8nW2sURE&t=13s&ab_channel=AltoClef) and [Vitali, Chaconne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBNquKkKcF4&ab_channel=MusicScores15) (they’re short)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Nighttime at Grand Tetons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAbJtTxU56E&ab_channel=NatureSoundscapes)

The swells of grassland rushed beneath the hooves of their horses as Gandalf led the company surely across the pathless open plains, the bright rays from the afternoon sun reflecting upon the rolling waves and washing the world in golden hues. Shadowfax appeared as some mystical creature, a living statue cast of precious silver, unburdened by their frantic pace and indeed reserving himself so that the others might not be left behind.

Even still, they raced against the descending sun. “We must not spend another day in travel,” explained Gandalf as he picked up their pace once again. “We will have time to rest upon arrival, but for now we must press on.” Thus the narrower the gap between the sun and its resting place behind the Mountains grew, the faster they flew.

So too grew Truva’s apprehension, recalling the way in which she and the other Riders had departed Edoras; she was certain that in their absence the situation had failed to improve, and all those who followed Éomer continued to be regarded as outcasts – for that was the discouraging news Elfhelm Marshal had conveyed upon his arrival at the Fords.

Absorbed in her unease, Truva scarcely noticed as the golden world slowly shifted red as the small company pressed on. Over time, however, she began to recognize the layout of the land, noting areas she and the other recruits had explored during their training. They were drawing ever closer, and soon the riders would come to the crest of a low hill, beyond which the foothills of the White Mountains would be revealed, Edoras nestled among them. She sensed Gandalf knew this as well, for he slackened their pace slightly.

“We know not what greeting we may receive at the gates of the city, but my presence was less than welcome upon my last visit. Let us approach at ease.” They climbed the final hill then and paused a moment as their destination, already half hidden in the evening shadow of the mountains, came into view. Though their speed was greatly reduced as they rode forward, they were soon hard upon the walls of the city.

The company of five pulled up a short distance beyond the gate, and Gandalf proceeded a few paces ahead of the others. Truva lingered behind the bulk of Legolas and Gimli, so that she might be out of sight of the guards and not invite their queries or ire.

“Stay, strangers here unknown!” a voice called out in Eorling. “Who are you that come heedless over the plain, in the company of one who has of late been banished from within our walls?”

“Banished?” questioned Gandalf, half to himself, considering the four figures behind him thoughtfully. The other three looked in confusion amongst themselves before turning at last to Truva, who could do nothing save cower slightly in her saddle. Gandalf said nothing, merely turned back toward the gate to call out again.

“Well do I understand your speech,” he spoke with booming voice, “Yet few strangers do so. Why then do you not speak in the Common Tongue, as is the custom in the West, if you wish to be answered?”

“It is the will of Théoden King that none should enter his gates, save those who know our tongue and are our friends,” replied the guard. “Never have we seen other riders so strange, borne by horses so like to our own, and an arrival of such suspicious timing. It is but two nights ago that the King’s advisor came to us and said that by the will of Théoden no stranger shall pass these gates.”

Truva’s head snapped up at the mention of Gríma. “We are no strangers!” she cried. “Well you know me and the horses upon which we ride. We have no business with Gríma, but request an audience with Théoden King, little distinction though there might be between the two of late,” though the last phrase Truva muttered to herself.

“Will you not go or send to say we’ve come?” asked Gandalf.

“If you will not grant us an audience, at least give us leave to enter, so that you might detain me,” added Truva.

“I will go and learn my King’s will. But what names shall I report, save that of the traitor? And what shall I say of you and your business?”

“Say that Gandalf has returned, and with him has come Aragorn son of Arathorn, the heir of Kings. With me also are Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf, our companions. Go now and say that we would have speech with him, if he will permit us to come into his hall, and that it is a matter of great urgency.”

“Strange names you give indeed!” replied the guardsman. “But I will report them as you bid. Wait here a little while, and I will bring you such answer as seems good to him.” With that, an indistinct figure could be seen breaking away from the gate and ascending the hill toward Meduseld in a rush. The company waited in uncomfortable silence; nothing could be heard save the shifting of horses and their breathless snorts.

At long last, the guardsman returned back down the hill. “Théoden gives you leave to enter, but any weapon that you bear, be it only a staff, you must leave on the threshold. The doorwardens will keep them.”

With that, one half of the gate slowly pulled inward, and the five travelers were allowed entry. As they passed through the gateway arch, half a dozen Eorlingas warriors could be seen clustered about the gate and its towers, observing the newcomers silently. Truva recognized several faces, though she knew none of them by name.

“Follow me!” said the guardsman, and three other warriors fell in beside him as they guided the company up the hill. A few Eorlingas villagers were about, but they lingered apart, exchanging concerned looks and whispers behind secretive hands. None greeted Truva outright, or even gave any indication of recognizing her.

When they arrived before Meduseld, the guardsmen exchanged a few hushed words with the doorwarden Háma, then departed back down the hill with his men. The company was instructed to leave their mounts tied to the post beside the stone foundation of the Hall, and the horses gratefully drank from the water basins provided.

After seeing to Bron, Truva followed as the strange company mounted the stone steps up to the vast entrance of the hall, her heart constricting painfully as she recalled all the times she had done so in the company of Théodred. The distraction the previous few days had provided vanished in an instant, and her breath came in quick gasps at the thought that never again would she find amusement in the Prince’s stories as they conversed beneath the dusty beams of sunlight streaming in through the stained glass of Meduseld.

Truva’s bearing was quite sharply drawn back to the present when Háma and two others blocked the riders’ advance to the hall. Her frequent lessons at Meduseld had in the past led Truva to consider the doorwarden a friend, yet he lowered his gaze now and would not meet her eyes, shifting uncomfortably beneath the steady, stern regard of the Wizard.

“Here I must bid you leave your weapons before you enter,” said Háma, extending his hand entreatingly. The five exchanged brief glances, yet they knew there was little alternative, and thus there followed a prolonged rustle of movement as each unburdened themselves of all that they carried: Legolas his giant bow and the sharpest of knives, as well as Gimli’s axe, which had scarcely left his hand since Truva first encountered them – including in his sleep.

Aragorn’s hesitancy was apparent. “It is not my will to deliver my sword unto the hand of any other man,” he said to the doorwarden.

“It is the will of Théoden,” replied Háma.

“Come, come!” said Gandalf, offering Háma the hilt of his own blade. “We are all friends here, or should be. Here at least is _my_ sword.”

Aragorn reluctantly removed his sword, though he would not allow anyone else to handle it, instead setting it upon the wall himself.

“You too, Truva,” said Háma. “You especially.”

Truva’s face fell. She had known that her reception would not be a congenial one, yet it was painful to experience the way in which those she had once considered friends looked upon her with suspicion. Her expression was sullen as she unfastened her sword – simple and unadorned as it was, without name such as the blades of her companions – and set it upon the ground before that of Aragorn. She laid also her bow, quiver, and dagger in a pile beside her sword.

“Now will you let us pass?” said Gandalf.

“Your staff,” said Háma, almost apologetically.

“Foolishness! Prudence is one thing, discourtesy is another. Would you part an old man from his support?” Gandalf asked innocently.

“The King mentioned it specifically. A staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age,” said Háma, then paused and glanced askance at the Wizard. “Yet a man in doubt will trust to his own wisdom. I believe you to be friends with no evil purpose. You may go in.”

When they entered, the once welcoming hall in which she had spent so many hours studying and celebrating was nearly unrecognizable to Truva. It had transformed into a dreary, ominous cave, fit only for brooding and malicious thought; and naught but a faint crimson light from the dying sun penetrated the windows, tinging with a sinister glow what little area of the hall was not shrouded in darkness. No sign of the great hounds Truva adored could be found, and the only other occupants were a small group of darkly clad men skulking in the wings of the hall.

Théoden sat as ever upon his throne, yet as the company approached Truva could see he had aged greatly even in the few short days she had been away. The King’s white hair had further lost its luster, and the wrinkled flesh of his face seemed pallid and skull-like. The lavish raiment that had once given him an illustrious air now hung loosely upon his skeletal frame. Truva could not help but gasp when she beheld such distorted features.

Behind the King’s throne stood Éowyn, a once reserved but cheerful spirit – yet as Truva looked upon her empyrean features it seemed as though all the sadness in the world had stormed her soul, and Truva was certain the unhappiness of the King’s sister-daughter was due in great part to the figure who emerged then from the shadows: Gríma.

“Well, well, does the traitor come to beg forgiveness?” Gríma sneered at Truva.

“I see but one traitor here, and it is not myself,” she retorted, anger flaring in her heart once more, for in her mind a clear sequence of events linked the advisor’s inexplicable treachery with the death of Théodred.

“It is not I who deserted our King, only to fly straight into the arms of his enemy!” snarled Gríma ere he fixed his gaze upon the Wizard. “You bring nothing save grim news to these halls, Gandalf Stormcrow. What ill omen do you portend now?”

“The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Galmód. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm,” Gandalf reprimanded, then turned to the King. “Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned, for the storm comes and all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed.”

“I greet you,” replied the King, though his voice lacked the musicality Truva was accustomed to hearing; it fell flat and without strength upon her ears. His eyes, too, had lost their youthful vigor and he seemed but a husk that trembled upon the slightest of winds. “I greet you,” the King repeated faintly, “And maybe you look for welcome, yet as this ‘worm’ says, ever have you been a herald of woe.”

“In two ways may a man come with evil tidings,” said Gandalf. “He may be a worker of evil; or he may be as such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in times of need.”

“What aid have you ever brought, Stormcrow?” spat Gríma. “And what aid do you bring now? Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? That I would call aid; that is our present need. I guess that you come as ever, seeking aid rather than rendering it.”

Gandalf paid little attention to Gríma, staring intently upon the seated figure of Théoden King. “No counsel have I to give those that despair. Yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you. Will you not hear them? Not all is dark. Take courage, Lord of the Mark.”

As he said this, Gandalf stood to his full height and threw off the tatters of his grey cloak, revealing the snowy folds beneath. When he raised his staff, the light from the windows faded and threw the hall further into darkness.

“His staff!” Gríma cried. “Did I not counsel you, lord, to forbid his staff? That fool Háma has betrayed us!”

From beyond the darkened windows thunder rolled briefly, then a flash of light as bright as lightning struck the exact spot upon which Gríma stood. He let out a shriek, followed by silence, and the King’s advisor lay sprawled upon the floor.

“And yet, it is still unmannerly to deprive the elderly of their walking sticks,” said Gandalf, contentedly drawing his staff back to himself as a faint light returned to the hall. The Wizard faced Théoden once more. “My lord, long have you unwittingly served under the heavy weight of your enemy’s thumb, trusting to crooked tales and wicked promptings. Come now, shrug off that mantle and don again your own.”

As he said these words, Gandalf raised his staff imperceptibly and bent it toward the King, and though it was neither clear nor apparent, there was a notion – as if some electric energy was building, expanding toward the King. It felt refreshing, invigorating, inviting even to those whom it was not intended for; and after a period of tense silence passed, Théoden rose unsteadily from his throne.

“Gandalf,” said the King. His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it gave an allusion of warmth.

“Too long have you been shut away in this dismal chamber, trapped in mind as well as body. Come, come outside and see the last rays of the sun illuminate your kingdom,” said Gandalf.

Truva watched, astounded, as Théoden King obeyed the Wizard’s command. He shook so violently when he stood that Truva feared he would fall back again, yet in the span of a blink Éowyn was at his side, supporting her uncle as he tottered past the astonished company and the prone form of Gríma to the entrance of the Hall. As though he had been listening, Háma opened the doors at the precise moment the King reached them, allowing a crisp breeze to waft in and bring new life into Meduseld.

Followed by the newly arrived travelers, Théoden King took several more feeble steps beyond the doors and out onto the stone terrace.

“Send your guards down to the stairs’ foot,” Gandalf urged Háma before turning to Éowyn, “And you, my lady, leave him a while with me. I shall care for him.”

“Go, Éowyn sister-daughter,” Théoden King said when she continued to linger, though the ever growing strength of his voice reassured her. “The time for fear is past.”

Yet still Éowyn tarried, for it had been many long years that she served as a bulwark between the King and those that sought to harm him, and to abandon her uncle in such a precarious situation made her uneasy – or so Truva believed the reason behind the shield-maiden’s hesitation to be. Truva then observed her gaze linger upon the proud figure of Aragorn, however, and she suspected it was not merely Théoden King Éowyn was loath to part from; yet the scene transformed before Truva could be sure of what she had witnessed, and Éowyn turned swiftly to retreat back into Meduseld. 

“Now, lord,” said Gandalf, “Look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!”

Théoden King averted his eyes briefly from the light of the fading sunset, which seemed to have been waiting for his appearance to reveal its full glory; for when the King finally faced it fully, the sun flashed its last sliver of light across the great expanse that lay before them, proceeding to bathe the western side of the mountains about them in majestic purple. Twilight unfurled across the land, seeming both foreboding and auspicious.

“It is not so dark here,” said the King.

“No,” replied Gandalf, “Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulder as some would have you think.”

Théoden King stood a moment, pausing to take in the sight anew. Then he said softly to himself, “My son,” as though recalling for the first time the death of Théodred. A quietude spread throughout the company.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, though Truva wondered at how both the King and Gandalf could have knowledge of the events at the Fords. “He died defending Rohan even as Rohan turned from him.”

“It was a most gallant death,” Truva added, suddenly recovering her senses and stepping forward. “Oft he spoke to me of his fears that he would prove unequal the deeds of his forebears, and yet his valor and fortitude at the Fords was deserving of being remembered alongside even the greatest warriors of the Mark.”

“Oh, Truva,” said the King, taking her hands in his own as he strove to hold back tears. “My dear, it has been told to me the way in which you defended Théodred upon the battlefield; Éofa came swift as a bird unto my halls, and yet in my blindness I had him jailed for desertion. Call Háma, ever dependable in his duty, and let him bring Éofa to me.”

“It was not your blindness, but the malice of he who occupies Isengard,” Gandalf reassured the King as Háma was summoned and set off on the task assigned him.

“Perhaps, though I must nevertheless accept the role I have played,” said Théoden. He stood in thoughtful silence for quite some time, contemplating the situation that lay before him. “Alas that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned. The young perish and the old linger, withering.”

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword hilt,” suggested Gandalf. Théoden reached then for his sword, only to discover that it was not at his side.

“Where has Gríma stowed it?” he muttered.

“Take mine, my lord!” cried a voice. All those who stood about upon the terrace of Meduseld looked down upon the road to see the approaching figure of Éofa, followed closely by Háma, and the grin upon the former’s face belied his shockingly disheveled appearance. “It was ever at your service.”

“My lord, forgive me,” said Háma, “But it was my understanding that Éofa was to be freed, and since he was free again, I brought him his sword as he bade me.”

“It is not your own unparalleled blade,” said Éofa, kneeling before Théoden and extended his sheathed sword hilt-first toward the King, “Yet I offer your highness my own as a sign of undiminished fealty.”

For a long while, Théoden King failed to react, and merely gazed upon Éofa blankly as though he did not comprehend the soldier’s words.

“Will you not take the sword?” prompted Gandalf.

Wordlessly, the King drew Éofa’s sword deliberately then, and Truva watched as the signs of aging – wrinkled skin and arthritic hands, dull eyes and hair that had lost its luster – slowly faded before her very eyes, leaving in their place the features of a much younger man; one who appeared once more to be the King Truva recalled upon her first arrival at Edoras. Though his hair was white as ever, the strength with which he gripped his sword was that of a man yet in his prime.

With a start, Théoden called out in a voice that reverberated off all surrounding buildings and into the furthest crevices of the White Mountains:

> _“Arise now, arise, riders of Théoden!_  
>  Dire needs awake, dark it is eastward.  
>  Let horses be bridled, horns be sounded!  
>  Forth Eorlingas!” 

Éofa whooped, “ _Westu Théoden hál!_ It is a joy to us to see you return to your own, my lord!”

“Take back your sword, Éofa,” said Théoden King. “Go, Háma, and seek my own. Gríma has it in his keeping. Bring him to me also.” Aragorn returned to the Hall and physically lifted the King’s ousted councilor by the back of his black robes and dragged him outside before the King.

“Dear Lord!” cried Gríma. “It is as I feared. This Wizard has bewitched you. He would draw you into war! Would you listen to this Wizard, this stirrer of trouble, this bearer of destruction and woe before you would trust your own adviser, who has done nothing but serve you faithfully for years?”

“It is oft the news we do not wish to hear that is most crucial for us to heed,” said the King. “If this is bewitchment, it seems more wholesome than your whisperings.”

“Have pity on one worn out in your service,” he groveled.

“With safety you cannot take him with you, nor can you leave him behind,” counseled Gandalf. “To slay him would be just.”

Truva brooded on the Wizard’s words a spell before she gathered courage to speak. “It was not always as it now is. It is true that Gríma has misled us – perhaps to our destruction – yet once he was a man and did you service in his fashion. Is it not perhaps that he was misled in the same way my lord was? Give him a horse and let him go wherever he chooses. By his choice you shall judge him.”

Gandalf gave Truva a curious look before he said to Théoden, “She is not wrong, you know.”

It was then that Háma returned with the King’s sword. “Here, lord, is Herugrim, your ancient blade. It was found in his chest. Many other things are there which men have missed.”

“Do you hear this, Gríma?” said the King. “This is your choice: to follow us now to where our path may lead, be it war or otherwise, and let us see whether you are true; or to go now, whither you will.”

Gríma hesitated but a moment, his face flashing between expressions of equal rage and terror, before he turned and fled down the hill toward the gates of Edoras, his black robe streaming out behind him. For a man of learning, he ran surprisingly fast.

“After him!” called Théoden to Háma. “See that he does no harm to any, but do not hurt him or hinder him. Give him a horse, if he wishes it. While not a single mount in our stable may be found wanting, select for him one most contrary; I would not allow that devil to harass any of our venerable horses, who have spent years in faithful service.” Háma bowed and departed after the retreating figure of Gríma, and a sense of contentment settled over those gathered before Meduseld.

Éofa lept to Truva’s side then and embraced her tightly. “I am glad to find you healthy,” he said, and Truva was quite elated to find that she did not feel wholly uncomfortable with this gesture.

“Likewise,” she said, though even if she had hoped to return the embrace, she found her arms pinned to her side by Éofa’s vice-like grip.

“It brings tears to my eyes to see such a happy reunion,” said King Théoden, “And yet it pains me unspeakably to know there is one who will never return; in my half-conscious state, I was remiss upon hearing news of my son’s death, and held no ceremony. We shall hold one tonight. Éofa, Háma, please see to accommodations for our guests – the best that you can provide! I am certain they are exhausted from their journey and desire to wash up.”

“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated,” said Aragorn as he, Gimli, and Legolas bowed low before the King and were led away by Éofa and Háma.

“I imagine Éomód and Héodis will be thrilled to take in new guests,” Truva said with a quiet smile, determining to visit her friends as soon as she cleaned up herself.

“They are truly considerate hosts, as I am sure you recall,” said the King in reply. “Now I, too, must retire. I feel as though I have aged a hundred years in as many days. Come, Gandalf; as tired as I am, we have much to discuss.” Gandalf lent an arm to support the King, who was still unsteady on his feet, and they turned in the direction of the King’s quarters.

The instant the two were beyond the hearing of others, Théoden turned at once to Gandalf and said, “The news I know you bring me is deeply troubling, Gandalf, and I fear time is critical. We shall muster all those who can reach Edoras before noon tomorrow, and depart as soon as we may.”

“It would be preferable to leave tonight, yet still it is not unwise to set out with a larger force if it can be summoned,” Gandalf admitted.

“Then it is decided. I will send for Háma after he is finished with our guests, and instruct him to dispatch heralds to the outlying villages with a message to gather as many men as can fight.”

Left solitarily upon the terrace, Truva sighed a breath of exhaustion. The past few days blurred into one macabre series of events, yet returning home eased her agitation in a way she did not think possible. She descended the steps of the terrace to the post where Bron stood alone, for Aragorn and the others had already led their mounts to the stables.

Truva followed in their footsteps, though they were gone by the time she arrived. After untacking Bron, she took her time rubbing him down and allowed him to fully enjoy the especial treatment he had more than earned. When she recalled how bravely Bron had borne her through battle at the Fords, and the wild chases she had led him on afterward, Truva leaned heavily upon his chest in wordless thanks; he lowered his head and rested it upon her back in response, and to Truva it felt as though he understood her sentiments.

“I have no treats,” said Truva by way of apology, pulling back and filling his bin with the most aromatic hay she could find. Bron snorted, but it was less accusatory and more conciliatory in tone. “I promise I shall bring some tomorrow.”

With that, Truva gave Bron a final affectionate rub on his snout, gathered her packs, and made her way out of the stable, exhaustion governing her every labored move as she walked toward the training ground. Memories flooded back with every turn: recollections of conversations with Théodred, training sessions with Éomer, jokes with the other recruits; she missed them all dreadfully and wondered how those who remained at the Fords were managing – yet there was but one to whom her thoughts continually returned, one she couldn’t bear to think upon.

Truva opened the door to her tiny home. Faced with its stark interior, she recalled her first night there, and Théodred traipsing in the next morning to decorate the table with simbelmynë. She recalled also the day of the picnic, when he had gone in search of her rucksack as though he were in his very own quarters. An eternity seemed to have passed since those times, and a lifetime since she had believed herself to be leaving it all behind to face banishment alongside Éomer. The uninhabited room before her did not feel as though it was hers.

Truva arrayed her gear in a corner and went outside to gather water. She heated bucket after bucket to the scalding point, then sat in a bath so long the water grew cold again. Once she reluctantly emerged, she dressed in the simplest of training uniforms, donned a cloak to ward off the night chill, and set off for Éomód and Héodis’ house.

The racket that emitted from their home was audible from quite some distance. Laughter and conversation washed over Truva as she paused just beyond the pools of golden light that escaped from the windows, composing herself and summoning the energy to match the greeting that she knew was to come. When at last Truva pushed open the front door and entered, Éomód and Héodis both leapt upon her, smothering her with hugs and kind words.

“We had no news!” cried Héodis.

“Even Éofa was swept away into confinement before he could reveal anything to anyone,” added Éomód.

“You must be starving! Look, you are skin and bones!”

“She has always been skin and bones!”

“Sit down, sit down! I hear there is to be a feast in honor of your victory at the Fords, and of the passing of Théodred, but you must eat something before then,” demanded Héodis, pulling Truva to an additional table that they had conjured and set beside the main one.

The reason for the noise was more than apparent: all three of the other guests were gathered about the first dining table, and the Elf and Dwarf continued to chat together quite contentedly, scarcely acknowledging Truva’s arrival. Éofa and Éowyn were there also, discussing all that had transpired since the departure of the outcasts. Aragorn was the only one quiet, listening at times to one conversation and then another.

Truva was placed forcefully into a seat across from the Ranger by Héodis, who immediately showered her with food and additional hugs. The finest bread and cheese appeared before Truva, as did fruit and cured meats and wine. Éomód sat next to her and assailed her ears with chatter – primarily concerning the commonplace events that had occurred recently in Edoras, for he considerately chose to avoid delving into her experiences since the departure of Éomer’s forces.

“Oh, how we have missed you!” he nattered, “True, it has not been long since your last visit, but Fulmod has been especially sullen without your games. He is in the back room now, sleeping already. Poor little tyke is constantly tuckered out from all the chores and lessons Héodis has been making him do.

“Say, strange is the company you bring; never would I have believed that I would one day be hosting an Elf beneath my roof — An Elf, Truva! He and the Dwarf will be staying in Éomer’s empty quarters, and the Man, what was his name? Ah, yes — Aragorn! He shall be staying with Éofa. Lovely gentleman, he is. Very proper…”

Truva allowed him to prattle on, relishing the comforting atmosphere of the familiar house and food. Héodis sat to Truva’s other side, adding nothing to Éomód’s commentary save a few interjections, though she occasionally piled more delicacies on top of that which she had already provided. She also rose occasionally to refill Gimli’s ale cup, which he was downing with incredible alacrity.

Before too long, Háma appeared at the door. “There you all are! I should have known; it is always here you may be found. The King sends his greetings and would like to inform you that the celebration shall begin an hour from now.”

“Thank you, Háma!” said Éomód.

“It is but my duty,” said Háma with a brief bow before withdrawing to inform other distinguished households of the news. The company lingered a while longer, then assisted Héodis and Éomód in clearing the tables and leisurely made their way toward Meduseld.

Though it was clear the Hall had been prepared in haste, it was elegantly swathed in black, and the darkness that enveloped it was no longer that of neglect, but of regal grieving.

“It is your first Eorlingas wake, is it not?” Éofa asked Truva quietly.

“My first wake of any kind,” she replied.

The group passed through the doors, adorned in simbelmynë, into the main hall. Sable fabric was hung in the place of tapestries, and all tables were similarly covered; and the entire hall was dim in the faint light of a few torches, save the dais which was illuminated brilliantly. Théoden King’s throne had been replaced by some carven figure, and as they approached Truva could see it was a magnificent wooden statue of Théodred’s stallion, inlaid with gold and glittering jewels. Scattered upon its back and about its hooves were blossoms of simbelmynë, which made the horse appear as though it floated through clouds.

Héodis and Éomód approached first, bowing deeply to their knees. With outspread hands they touched the flowers that lay upon the ground, and remained still and silent a moment before they arose. They brushed their fingertips along the wooden statue then turned away, moving aside for Éofa and Éowyn, who repeated the same pattern.

When it was her turn, Truva did her best to follow the example set by those who had gone before. At first, she was most concerned about performing the gestures properly, yet as she kneeled upon the floor and touched her fingertips to the white simbelmynë, she felt the purity of Théodred’s spirit flow through her, and a melancholic reassurance passed from her hands to her heart. Whether grief or comfort pulsed stronger she knew not, and feared she never would.

Truva rose at great last and moved aside, allowing those who came behind to approach the statue as she followed the others to the table in the corner where they were accustomed to sitting. Turning to look back, the Eorlingas watched as the three strange travelers bent in greeting to a warrior they had never met, and were touched by this gesture.

When Éofa guided the newcomers to the table, the trio made as if to sit upon the far side, nearer the walls. With a glance at Truva, however, Héodis boldly laid a staying hand upon Aragorn’s arm, saying, “Ah, there are those among us who would prefer those seats.”

She sat promptly in the very middle of the far bench, gesturing for Truva to join her, for ever since the first banquet Héodis had come to understand many of Truva’s oddities and how best to accommodate them, and subsequently she had developed habits such as announcing her visits to Truva’s barracks rather than knocking, and always offering her friend a secluded seat.

Most importantly, she knew there was something in Truva that prevented her from making any such requests of her own volition; and as her own personality meant that she had no qualms whatsoever in drawing attention to herself, Héodis often allowed others to assume it was her own peculiarities that drove her to behave in a strange manner. It was thus, as the visitors took seats about the table shaking their heads slightly in bemusement, that Truva gave a thankful half-smile to Héodis, who winked surreptitiously in return.

Other Eorlingas filtered in, each paying their respects before taking seats scattered throughout the hall. The atmosphere was entirely different from Truva’s first banquet, for a somber mood reigned in place of the boisterous hubbub, yet none seemed to be discouraged from engaging in quiet conversation; it was if the mournful yet soothing tranquility Truva had experienced upon touching the simbelmynë earlier had spread throughout those present.

Even in that moment, the hounds of the King emerged from a side door and moved about the guests for the first time after their long absence from the Hall, doling out comfort where they may. A particularly immense wolfhound approached Truva and would not leave her side, leaning his massive bulk against her back until she turned to embrace him wholeheartedly, allowing his warmth to penetrate into her very core.

As the crowd of mourners continued to trickle in, servers began to distribute their endless supply of food and drink, though as before the Eorlingas remained reserved and did not touch the dishes that lay tempting upon the table.

When at last the few remaining stragglers paid their respects to Théodred and took their seats, Théoden King appeared upon the dais, followed closely by Gandalf. The King’s recovery seemed even more evident than it had been earlier in the evening, for a pink flush had returned to his face and his bearing was once again that of a tall and proud sovereign; yet a crease of exhaustion was engraved deeply upon his brow, and his stark white hair had become an immutable aspect of his character.

Théoden King and his Wizard companion took their place behind the statue of Théoden’s horse, and in his hands the King bore a folded black shroud, which he raised before him as he addressed those gathered in the Hall.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began, then paused and bowed his head momentarily. He took a deep breath and raised his head before continuing, “Long has it been since I have felt so much myself, and it brings great solace to me in seeing your faces with renewed clarity.

“Tonight, we celebrate the life of our beloved Théodred, who brought light and laughter to all who encountered him. Lately in our darkening days, Théodred served as an unerring star, forever in its place whether clouds obscure the sky or clear nights reigned.

“He died a valorous death, defending those who knew not what they had to fear, so that they might live longer in peace. It is said that his death was every bit as glorious as his daily presence was delightful, for ever a fire burned beneath his lighthearted exterior, a fire that called him to a duty many need never fulfil.

“Nor shall we forget those who fought and perished beside Théodred, in whose hearts a similar fire burned. The significance of their sacrifice must not be underestimated, for dark days loom before us. Remember those we have lost as you dine tonight; reflect upon happy memories and good times. We cannot halt the turning of the world, yet we can ensure our loved ones do not become insignificant in the face of unyielding time.”

He held the shroud aloft and shook it loose above the statue. It hung briefly suspended in the air before settling upon the carven figure, revealing only its outline beneath the gossamer threads. Gandalf placed a bundle of simbelmynë upon the back of the horse as Théoden accepted two glasses of wine and, handing one to the Wizard, raised the other above his head.

“To Théodred!” he cried.

“To Théodred!” the hall chorused after him, taking a deep drink in silence. Théoden King descended then from the dais and moved about the tables, greeting those who wished to extend condolences while others turned to their meals and the murmur of conversation resurged.

“We haven’t eaten properly nigh on— well, since I can’t remember!” exclaimed the Dwarf, enthusiastically falling upon the spread.

“Certainly since we left Lórien,” added Legolas as he readily accepted a second glass of wine.

“Lórien!” said Éofa in surprise. “It is a place we know only in our stories – which say no man may pass through alive.”

“Would you accuse me of speaking falsely?” said Legolas.

“Forgive my rudeness! I certainly did not wish to accuse you of being false – it is simply that you must be the only beings in these lands to have visited such a distant and intriguing place. What task was it that brought you through the woods of Lórien?” Éofa asked. Truva listened intently, hoping that Éofa might be met with more luck in teasing information from the Elf than Aragorn had revealed, though he was forthcoming no further.

“I believe your King Théoden might speak much on that soon,” said the Elf evasively.

“You said you departed from Imladris,” prompted Truva, nevertheless determined to take advantage of the opportunity. “What path did you take from there that led you then to Lórien? Did you go through the High Pass? Or travel south to Redhorn?”

“Well, aren’t you an interrogative lass?” said Gimli, and Truva raised her eyebrows slightly at his words, yet said nothing so as not to interrupt him in hopes that he would speak more, and he did not give her cause for disappointment:

“We set out south, initially bound for the Pass of Caradhras, but were beaten back by impassable conditions and traversed instead the Mines of Moria.” The three travelers shuddered slightly before the Dwarf continued, “In that way we arrived at Lórien, then sailed upon the great Anduin to Rauros.”

“It was there we were separated from our Halfling companions, and set out on foot across the lands of the Rohirrim,” said Legolas. Aragorn remained silent throughout his companions’ narration, and Truva observed him as she listened, discerning from their words and his minute expressions that significant details had once more been ignored in this telling – not least of which being why they had risked such a dangerous path in the first place.

“The Mines of Moria,” said Truva. “It is rumored they are overridden with fell creatures; or is that an exaggeration of our tales, as it is with Lórien?”

“Terrible things we encountered in Moria,” said Aragorn at last, “Yet I believe I speak for my friends as well as myself when I say we do not wish to think back on those terrible halls.”

The Ranger’s two companions nodded in agreement, and while Truva failed to comprehend why they had not traveled further south to the Gap of Rohan – for it seemed to her as though all the Orcs of Isengard could not possibly compare to the horrors they must have encountered in the Mines – the current circumstances did not seem appropriate to press the issue.

The conversation petered out and the group ate without speaking for a while, though Truva was unable to stomach much food and instead sat back to surreptitiously observe those seated around her. Éomód and Héodis were expressing their affection for one another in a variety of ways: providing food or squeezing hands or nudging each other cheekily. Éofa – ever the embodiment of a soldier – was wholly absorbed in his food, while Legolas and Gimli conversed wordlessly, merely raising eyebrows and exchanging peculiar expressions.

After some time, as dialogue once more slowly picked up between the companions about the table, Héodis turned discreetly to Truva. “I have an idea,” she said in hushed tones, careful to ensure their conversation was not overheard.

“What might that idea be?” asked Truva, equally quiet.

“It is for an unhappy reason we celebrate tonight, yet I have heard rumors that Théoden King’s condition has greatly improved, and his birthday fast approaches.” She lowered her voice even further. “Do you not think it a good time to arrange some sort of surprise celebration?”

Truva mused upon this proposition for a moment. “I think it is a wonderful idea, especially upon the return of those who were banished.”

“Precisely!” enthused Héodis, her voice still barely above a whisper. “I am so glad you approve! Yet it shall be no easy undertaking – do you suppose there might be any others who would be willing to help us plan such an event?”

“I am certain Éofa would be overjoyed, and he above all others can be trusted to keep a secret…” Truva answered distractedly, taking little notice of Héodis’ reply, for she felt the unsettling sensation of eyes upon her. She glanced up, only to meet the gaze of Aragorn, whose face bore a disconcerting frown. Truva immediately averted her eyes, for she could not endure the forcefulness behind his gaze; she felt as though he were scrutinizing her, looking for some weakness, probing the innumerous cracks that threatened the foundation of her very being.

It was in casting her glance aside, however, that Truva noticed an even more curious thing: the unmoving figure of Éowyn, her vision focused wholly upon Aragorn with an intensity she had never witnessed the Eorlingas maiden exhibit before. Éowyn scarcely blinked as she fixed the Ranger in her gaze, and any attempt to call her attention was met with no response.

Truva’s observation of this peculiar development was suddenly interrupted by the approach of Théoden King, who had come at last to greet the new arrivals, though their Wizard companion had vanished unobserved at some point and no longer accompanied the King.

“Is the food to your liking?” Théoden asked his guests. “And what of your quarters?”

“It is all very much to our liking!” the Dwarf enthused. “Please convey our thanks to Éomer for the use of his home.”

“And I do believe this wine is the greatest quality of any found beyond the Elven kingdoms!” said Legolas.

Aragorn, reserved as ever, rose and bowed deeply. “It is with deepest gratitude that we accept your hospitality,” he said.

“We would welcome you more extravagantly had our house not fallen to such ill of late,” said the King, turning then to Truva. “And long have I been remiss in awarding what you, Truva, are due; many years have you served the Mark faithfully, more so than a great many others who have come before. I cannot, without the presence and permission of Éomer, promote you in rank, yet unto you I can bestow something else:

“I grant to you full citizenship; from this day onward, you are no longer merely my ward, an outsider – you are a true member of the Mark, deserving of rights no different from any Eorlingas born within our borders. I would have held a ceremony, yet considering the style in which you fled your first one, I thought it best to forgo it.”

Those who had been present at Truva’s introductory feast all those years ago chuckled good-naturedly, yet Truva was too touched to be embarrassed by the recollection. She bolted to her feet with tears in her eyes and bowed so low she nearly knocked her head upon the bench.

“Thank you, your highness!” she cried. “Ever shall I serve you to the fullest of my abilities, with unparalleled devotion and spirit bolstered by your magnanimity!”

“I believe you shall,” smiled the King. He then took a seat beside Truva and lowered his voice further, so that none save Truva could hear.

“Yet it was oft in my days of mental haze, under the spell of Saruman, that Théodred came and spoke to me of all things occurring within our walls, from the most insignificant matter to those of the greatest consequence. I believe he had hoped in some small part to counter Gríma’s influence.

“At that time, I did not comprehend the meaning of his words, yet as the fog was lifted from my eyes this evening, I could recall all that he told me. I must say, it was not infrequently that he spoke your name.” Théoden King paused momentarily and looked deep into Truva’s eyes, a sorrowful but kindly expression passing across his face. He gave to her a spray of simbelmynë he held in his hands.

“I will forever consider you a daughter,” he said softly, and the tears that threatened to spill from Truva’s eyes then were of mourning rather than happiness, the joy of acceptance suddenly replaced by the heartbreak of inconsolable loss. Her gaze fell to the simbelmynë that she spun in her fingers, recalling once more the time Théoden had presented her with the flowers to welcome her into her new home.

Théoden King rose and, after laying a hand briefly upon Truva’s shoulder, departed to speak with the last few mourners. The remainder of the feast passed uneventfully; Truva ate only a mouthful here and there as the others conversed around her, for she did not have the spirit to engage, and when the back of her neck tingled it was but fleetingly that she lifted her gaze, only to find Aragorn staring at her intently yet again.

As the banquet concluded, Théoden King ascended once more to the dais. “Loth as I am to burden this feast of remembrance with further unhappy news,” he spoke, his resonant voice carrying without strain throughout the Hall, “The inevitable can be postponed no longer, for it was defending our borders from the advancing forces of Isengard that Théodred laid down his life. Many years have we fended off Saruman’s pernicious attacks, yet his offenses against us have reached a climax that cannot go unopposed. We must now resort to the last option left to us: war.”

A collective gasp was heard, and whispering spread throughout the Hall.

“It is with heavy heart that I ask every able-bodied man to return home tonight and prepare to depart by noon tomorrow, for the purpose of defending our land from this encroaching evil,” continued the King over the building murmur. “This is a duty none wish to face, yet it is that of all who live to see such times – to ensure that no other may endure a similar fate. Go now and say your goodbyes, and to rest as much as you can before our departure.”

The whispering grew to a roar as everybody rose at once, voices drowning out even the scrape of benches against the flagstone floor. The growing darkness had not escaped the notice of a single citizen, yet upon hearing the word “war” uttered – from the mouth of the King no less! – the Eorlingas were sent into a frenzy.

They poured from the Hall into the chilly night like a river bursting forth from a dam. When Truva looked skyward amidst the roiling tumult, the clarity of the stars seemed to question whether the fleeting lives of Men, or even the everlasting lives of Elves, could truly match the endless sway of what lay beyond. To those tiny specks of light, even the surging darkness that threatened to sweep away all that was known was nothing more than a fleeting moment in eternity.

Éowyn’s presence beside her returned Truva to myopic reality. Glancing to the shield-maiden, Truva said, “I suppose you shall finally ride with us.”

“If only it were so,” said Éowyn, hanging her head.

“How could you not? You are a leader of your people, a symbol of the Mark’s military prowess!”

“It is unfortunately only the first of those traits my Lord Théoden has chosen to lend significance. My lord the King will ride out to whatever future may come to him, and with the passing of his son, and Éomer still away, there is none save me to guide those who remain behind.”

“Protecting our most vulnerable is also a noble duty,” said Truva, attempting to approach the issue in a conciliatory manner, though she was sympathetic to Éowyn’s reproachful look; for Éowyn was no more suited to politics than Truva herself.

Representing a pool of calm amidst the throng of Eorlingas, the two slowly descended the hill together when suddenly Éowyn cast about as if looking for someone. “That Man— the visitor,“ she said in a hushed voice.

“Do you mean Aragorn?” asked Truva.

“Yes, Aragorn. What do you know of him?”

“Very little, though I know he is son of Arathorn, called Elessar, the heir of Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor – or so he declared himself to Éomer upon their meeting,” said Truva. “He was better known unto these lands as Thorongil, who swore servitude to Thengel King.”

“The Ranger of the North?”

“The very same,” said Truva.

A thoughtful look crossed Éowyn’s face. “And what of the jewel that hangs about his neck?”

Truva started in genuine confusion, for she had not observed the stranger close enough to perceive any such adornment. “What jewel?”

“Did you not see it in all the time you traveled together – a silver eagle clasping an emerald stone?” said Éowyn. “I wonder how he came by it.”

“I cannot say,” said Truva in honesty.

“Will you not ask?”

“Sorry?” said Truva.

“If I am to guide our refugees to safety in Dunharrow, rather than ride with you into battle, I will be deprived of the opportunity to inquire myself. Will you not ask, for my sake?”

“I will do what I can, though I cannot offer anything more,” said Truva. “I fear he and I are far from fast companions, and the Ranger might not answer me straightforwardly.”

“Even so, any answer you could possibly receive would surpass my own knowledge,” said Éowyn.

“That is true,” said Truva as they arrived at the fork in the path that led to the soldiers’ accommodations. “Let us see what the morrow brings.”

“Go now to your rest, new citizen of the Mark!” said Éowyn, embracing Truva, and in her heartfelt gratitude Truva scarcely struggled to return the gesture before departing down the path to her quarters.

As Truva entered her home alone, a brooding premonition prevailed. The night had been far from the contented, relaxing evening she had desired, for the looming disquiet suggested the events at the Fords of Isen – and all that had occurred since – were but the overture of a much larger, indiscernible narrative. Truva could only guess at what part she was to play, yet she concluded that even if all subsequent events were joyous in nature, it would still conclude an unhappy tale overall.

Feeling disheartened, Truva unpacked the gear from her rucksack and hung it up to air out, and she checked also to ensure that nothing was missing, and laid the blade Éomer had given her ceremoniously upon the chest at the foot of her bed. It was but the work of a moment, however, and soon she found herself languishing in a chair, staring at the impassive stars that lay beyond her window.

Truva suddenly felt as though the atmosphere in the room was close and suffocating, pressing in on her struggling lungs, and she was overcome by the need to escape. She stood and, upon searching in her cupboards, discovered a few carrots and an apple – withered as they were – and made her way to the stables. The night was pitch black and she could not see far, yet she knew precisely where Bron’s stall was and had long been capable of finding it with her eyes closed; yet even if she was lost, Bron’s snorts of joyous greeting would always lead her directly to him.

She fed him the first of the carrots, then picked up a brush and ran it down his back, at which he flicked his tail and stomped a hind leg to signal his contentment. Truva then moved to his mane and loosed the untidy braids, brushing his hair out until it flowed silkily through her fingers before beginning to rebraid his mane in the most intricate manner Éomód had taught her. Having done it so numerous times, she relied on muscle memory and had no need of sight.

As Truva worked, her mind wandered. She thought back to her very first encounter with the Eorlingas in the Hidlands, and how they had welcomed her with open arms and shown her unfamiliar kindness. Her heart swelled painfully in her chest with pride and gratitude upon recalling that she was now a true Eorlingas.

She thought back, too, upon the afternoon by the river that she had spent with Théodred discussing foul language, and the evening he had spent in his extensive explanation of the War of the Elves and Sauron, and of the time he had confessed his insecurities regarding his role as the son of a King. If only she could see him one last time, reassure him that few Eorlingas had ever served the Mark so nobly, speak to him of her own feelings—

Truva suddenly became aware of another sound aside from the shifting of the horses in their stalls; she could hear footsteps, however quiet, approaching the stable entrance. She reached for her knife and instantly regretted leaving it at home, for she had believed there could be no danger within the walls of Edoras. Though she had previously considered the city a haven, war was afoot, and a disgruntled King’s advisor was still on the prowl.

Truva ducked out from Bron’s stall just as a blacker shadow passed before her in the darkness. She dove for its legs and the figure fell crashing to the floor, yet it reacted far quicker than she had expected. Truva found herself tangled up in a web of limbs from which she quickly extracted herself, yet in leaping to gain a further advantage she found herself catapulting far further forward than intended. She managed to secure their ankle even so, yet as soon as she wrapped her fingers about it, a hand pinned her wrist to the ground and freed the trapped leg. Caught in a whirlwind of attack and defense, the struggle lasted mere moments before both Truva and the figure regained their footing, posed either to strike or defend.

“Is this how you greet your guests in this land?” a voice growled. It was not a voice Truva knew well, yet it was familiar to her nevertheless.

“Aragorn?” said Truva, the shock registering clearly in her voice.

“Truva?” he answered.

“Is this how you treat your hosts where you’re from? Sneaking around in the dark to startle them? What is your purpose here?” she demanded, sounding rather more aggressive than she would have liked, for her heart raced still.

“The same purpose as yours, I would imagine,” he said. Truva felt more than saw him walk toward Hasufel’s stall, and marveled at his awareness in the dark. He did not upset any of the numerous bins or precarious piles of supplies. He moved as naturally as though he walked in daylight.

After a moment of ruing her harsh words, Truva said to Aragorn, “Apples are Hasufel’s favorite,” and passed the single apple she had found to his dark shape in the hopes of conveying a wordless apology. Aragorn accepted the apple, though perhaps not the apology.

“Thank you,” he said, but spoke no more. Truva hesitated before turning back to Bron and hastily finishing the braids in his mane, desperate to shed herself of the Man’s presence. An uncomfortable tension lingered on the air, or perhaps Truva was the only one to feel so, yet it built until she could stand it no longer.

“I will just—” Truva trailed off as she retreated toward the entrance. Aragorn merely grunted in response, and Truva turned and fled back to her barracks.


	11. Road to Helm's Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Conus, Violin Concerto in E minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJG2I9NE22Y&ab_channel=morerareviolintreasures)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Wenatchee River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9VsrscB2YY&t=154s&ab_channel=NatureSoundscapes)

The next morning was deceptively bright. The sun shone cheerfully and unperturbed from even the earliest hours of the day, oblivious to the heartrending plight of Mankind below. Light swept across the crisp white peaks of the mountains down to the undulating plains of grass that spread far off to the edge of the visible world. Everything throbbed with a living energy that wholly contradicted the mood that had settled over Edoras.

Soldiers – if they might be called such – had gathered in the night from nearby villages. Just beyond the city walls they had pitched tents, from which under the sun’s rays early morning dew rose as steam, hovering mystically over the scene and bathing the new arrivals in a golden aura as they bustled about, preparing breakfast or checking their equipment for the umpteenth time.

Truva had not been able to sleep much during the night, and thus had risen early and watched these strangers trickle in, a slight stream of tiny fireflies in the gray dawn light. It was perched upon a rocky outcrop just below the east side of Meduseld’s terrace, basking in the warmth of the sun, that Éofa found her as he went to hold morning conference with the King.

He said nothing as he sat beside her, merely tore the small loaf of bread he held in two and offered her the larger half. She accepted it absentmindedly, though she did not eat. Together they looked to the sun as it inched its way along its daily arc overhead. He let the warmth seep into his bones in a rare moment of peace before speaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“How do you suppose Éomer and the others have fared?” Truva asked, ignoring his question and turning to look searchingly into his light eyes.

“I reckon they have fared even better than either you or I,” he replied, genuine optimism woven into his voice. “I have spent days locked up at Gríma’s command, and you have romped all across the Mark with a cast of terribly interesting characters. Éomer, I suspect, is lazing about upon the Fords of victory, backed by a host of our finest fighters.”

“I suppose you are right,” sighed Truva. When a few drab sparrows approached hopefully, she tore at the loaf and distributed its crumbs slowly, watching the birds’ brown and tan feathers flitter about. “And there is no more auspicious omen than our King returning unto himself; yet some misgiving nags at the edge of my consciousness.”

“My own misgiving lies not at the fringes of the mind, but directly ahead,” said Éofa. “War seems inescapable.”

“War is inescapable, and worrying about it serves little purpose. No, I fear some other underlying current seems to be afoot,” said Truva.

“Would it reassure you to listen in on the counsel we give the King this morn?” offered Éofa.

“I have no right to take part in such events.”

“I believe you will find that to be a significant miscalculation on your part,” Éofa kindly replied, though in seeing her conflicted look did not falter, he stood swiftly. “Come, I give you no choice; as your current superior officer, I order you to attend.”

Truva’s smile did not reach her face, but it blossomed in her heart as she stood and saluted. “As you command, my lord.” She tossed the remaining bread to the birds and followed Éofa around to the front of the Hall, and when they entered they saw that many others had already gathered.

Off to one side, several of the King’s advisors clustered, debating in hushed whispers. Gandalf sat upon a large chair, his eyes gazing off into nothingness and his pipe halfway to his mouth, as though he had intended to take a puff and wholly forgotten. Éowyn leaned silently against a pillar, deliberately looking anywhere save upon Aragorn, who stood before Gandalf, deep in conversation with Legolas and Gimli.

As Truva and Éofa moved further into the Hall, Truva’s eyes met Aragorn’s brief glance. Despite her extreme discomfort, Truva approached within a short distance and Aragorn turned from his conversation with the others. Before he could speak, Truva began, “With regard to last night, I am truly sorr—“

“It was wrong of me to have startled you,” he said, interrupting her apology. “Walking about unannounced in a place that is home to others was inconsiderate.”

“Edoras is home to all who are friends,” replied Truva. “There is no need to stand upon ceremony here.”

“Very well, then,” said Aragorn, though if he wished to speak more he was prevented from doing so by the entrance of Théoden King, adorned in full riding gear. The King clasped his helm under his right arm, beneath his leather breastplate the glint of mail could be seen, and the clack of his boots reverberated throughout the hall. Truva felt her heart swell to behold her King looking as resplendent and as full of vigor as the first day she had seen him. She was further relieved when he failed to comment upon the impropriety of her presence.

All present gathered about a large banquet table as the King unfurled a map across it. “Long have we known that some evil brews in Mordor,” he said, indicating the southeast area of the map, “And we shall have to face what awaits us there in due time; our current threat, however, emerges from Isengard. The information Éofa and Truva have returned with indicates that Saruman has amassed an imposing army of Orcs and Men and all manner of fell beasts, a combined strength that we have underestimated or been ignorant of for far too long.

“Not seven days has passed since our warriors confronted this force at the Fords of Isen. We emerged victorious – but only just. Éomer maintains our position at the Fords; it is my intention that we move immediately and directly to reinforce that position. From the Fords, we shall be able to reassess whether to mount an assault upon Isengard ourselves, or retreat to Hornburg and allow the fell waves of Isengard crash and break upon its battlements.”

“I suspect the might of Saruman surpasses that of even your current reckoning,” warned Gandalf. “It would not be unwise to make straight for Helm’s Deep, pulling Éomer back simultaneously.”

“I worry such action might leave Éomer too exposed, and for too long,” said Éofa. “We sustained terrible losses at the Fords; were Éomer to withdraw now, Saruman would sense the full extent of our weakness and send forces to chase down our Riders even as they fell back – forces they would have to face without assistance. Is it not better to maintain our position and the illusion of strength until we can move as a single, unified army?”

“Éofa is right,” said one of the King’s advisors. “Time is crucial in this conflict, as is solidarity. It would be wisest to rejoin Éomer as quickly as possible. Erkenbrand defends the Hornburg as it is; we are not needed there so quickly.”

“What of your people?” asked Aragorn. “Those that cannot fight?”

“Edoras is nigh on indefensible even when fully manned,” said the King. “Our people must be evacuated to Dunharrow. They will be led by my sister-daughter, Éowyn.” Those present glanced at Éowyn, who made a small, almost inaudible noise. Despite her unreadable exterior, it was easy for Truva to surmise the frustration that roiled beneath.

“Any objections?” asked the King, and those that felt the need to respond shook their heads no, though all were in agreeance. A few advisers sat contemplating the map, too lost in thought to react.

“Very well then,” said the King. “I shall temporarily assume the role of Éomer Marshal and lead the King’s Riders. Éofa, I place you in command of those forces that have gathered this night. Truva, you are second in command.”

“My lord—?”

“My dear advisors, it is my wish that you should accompany Éowyn,” said the King, interrupting Truva to speak with those who dealt in politic. “Allow those that will remain behind to say goodbye to their loved ones who go to fight, then immediately proceed with the relocation to Dunharrow.

“And finally, our guests: Gandalf, if you and your companions would deign to travel in my guard, it would do me a great honor.”

“The honor would be ours,” said Aragorn, bowing politely.

“I suppose this means more riding of those ridiculous creatures,” grumbled Gimli as the group divided and went to their individual tasks.

“Well, this _is_ the _Ridder_ mark, land of the _horse_ men...” Legolas’ voice trailed off as the strange company exited Meduseld.

Truva stood transfixed for a moment, incapable of moving until Éofa’s encouraging slap on her shoulder sent her lurching forward half a step. “See, your presence was not at all unwonted, as I predicted,” he said.

“It is surely a temporary arrangement, until we rejoin forces with Éomer. It is a grave mistake to place in my hands responsibility for anything save myself, and even then it is unwise,” said Truva.

“A temporary arrangement, perhaps, though I disagree that it is unwise,” said Éofa. “Even so, it is the will of Théoden King. Would you question his judgement, or defy him?”

“Never!” said Truva, bristling at the idea. Éofa merely laughed.

“Gather your things and mount up. Let us reconvene before the main gate as soon as you are ready.”

Truva dashed to her accommodations, collected only her most necessary belongings, then raced to the stables where Bron greeted her. “Sorry, no snacks again today,” she said in heartfelt apology as she fumbled with his saddleblanket. He seemed to sense her urgency, however, and allowed her to tack up without his typical mischief; there was no big lungful of air to cause her saddle to slip, or playful nibbling at the bridle straps.

Thanks to Bron’s obliging manner, it was only a few minutes that lapsed ere Truva was riding down the hill toward the temporary encampment, which had been replaced by a melee of villagers preparing for their imminent departure. Truva could see Éofa just beyond the gates, talking in earnest with Aragorn and Éowyn. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her calling.

“Truva! Truva!” She turned to observe Héodis flying down the hill, skirt billowing out behind her and a familiar letter raised in her hand. Truva turned Bron about and returned back up the hill, meeting Héodis halfway.

“Did you honestly think you could go off without saying goodbye?” Héodis accused her.

“Quite frankly, I had intended on returning with such expeditiousness that you would not notice my absence in the first place,” said Truva.

“Oh, do not speak with such flippancy! Who knows what is to come. Here,” said Héodis, folding a letter into Truva’s hand. “Our last communion – for now. It is from Fulmod and I, for Éomód will be traveling with you. Oh, do take care of him, Truva, please! He knows nothing of war and fighting.”

“I will protect him with my entire being,” Truva promised, taking the letter and tucking it beneath her leather jerkin, hoping Héodis could not detect the trepidation in her voice. Héodis then returned back up the hill, and Truva down it, where the trio beyond the gates sat observing her.

Éowyn left the company of Éofa and Aragorn and reentered the gates, approaching Truva. “I have a similar request,” she said in a low voice when she grew near. Unnerved by the seriousness of Éowyn’s tone, Truva dismounted.

“Whatever is wrong?”

“He may have significantly more skill in combat than Éomód,” said Éowyn, indicating with subtle body gestures the Ranger some distance off, “Yet those who seem most prepared are often overlooked in their rare time of need.”

“Of all the help I might be able to offer, I do not think there is any way in which I can assist that Man,” said Truva. She surreptitiously glanced over Éowyn’s shoulder to where Aragorn stood, only to catch his eyes flitting away.

“Even were I to believe your words true, which I do not, please spare the slightest corner of your heart to watch over him,” begged Éowyn.

Truva inhaled a deep, rattling breath, held it for some time, then released it sharply, willing herself not to shed tears yet again, before saying, “Théodred died because I could not protect him.”

Éowyn reached out and took Truva’s hand in her own, clasping it tightly. “Théodred died because he would not see the Mark fall into the hands of evil; he did what had to be done, as did you. At the Fords, you protected not the single life of Théodred, but that of all our people.”

Truva did not reply. She could not comprehend how Éowyn’s request differed, how she might prevent Aragorn from making the same sacrifice as Théodred, how her skills – proven to be inadequate as they had been – would suddenly become sufficient to protect such a grand figure; yet Truva was loth to reveal such concerns to Éowyn and thus subject the Eorlingas maiden to similar worry.

“Please,” said Éowyn breathlessly, her eyes sparkling with the hint of tears, “For me.”

Truva withdrew her hands from Éowyn’s grasp, taking the maiden’s hands in her own and placing them upon her heart.

“I promise.” Truva felt the trembling in Éowyn’s hands as she released them, and knew they shook both out of distress as well as anger at being left behind. There was nothing Truva could do, however, no words she could say that would assuage the shieldmaiden’s consternation, and so she turned to Bron and mounted back up, riding through the gates to join the others. When she glanced back – just once – Éowyn stood by the side of the path, tall and regal with her golden hair blown about by the wind, a commanding figure of stern authority and a true sovereign to her people, yet tinged with heartbreaking despondency.

“So kind of you to join us,” said Éofa when Truva at last rode up. “What was it that Éowyn said to you?”

“Parting words,” said Truva simply. “I do not understand why she is not to come with us. She is a fierce warrior; it is to our detriment that her skills be wasted thus.”

“Fierce warrior that she is, she is also a born leader,” replied Éofa, “And those that remain behind might yet need the protection of her sword.”

Though she hoped such occasion might never arise, Truva nodded in halfhearted agreement before turning to survey the scene before her, watching the amusing figures of Legolas and Gimli upon Arod as they picked their way through numerous Marksmen who scrambled to pack belongings and soothe skittish horses. She saw also Éomód briefly raising an arm in greeting, and returned the gesture.

The entire company seemed to be milling about in disarray, though order suddenly emerged from the chaos and two groups formed. To the northwest stood what few remaining Eorlingas soldiers remained in Edoras. To the southeast, those who had been mustered from the surrounding areas, their ranks swollen with the ordinary citizens of the city, struggled to form uneven lines. All together they amounted to a paltry force, one woefully unequipped, and Truva looked upon them in dismay.

When all Riders had assembled as best as possible, the figure of King Théoden could be seen making his way from Meduseld upon his horse Snowmane, the golden gleam of his armor striking against his white hair and horse. Behind the King’s magnificent presence rode Gandalf, who would have been inconspicuous in his drab robes were he not astride Shadowfax, who bore the Wizard as gloriously as if he, too, were a king.

Théoden King halted directly beneath the main gate, taking in all the ranks arrayed before him, who in return observed their leader with hesitant anticipation. The King then pulled a few steps forward and raised his voice to address his army:

“I will be brief, for well you all know the purpose to which we have gathered here. This day has been long in coming, though it has at long last arrived. For many years we have dealt as best we could with unceasing threats from the west, yet Saruman now seeks the utter destruction of our livelihood, of our people, and of our lands. Let us ride now to the Fords of Isen, and boldly face the fate that awaits us beyond! Ride forth now for the Mark!”

He let loose a chilling cry, and it was taken up by all before him; though the shouts had not even begun to die down ere Théoden took his place at the head of the army and led the foremost ranks toward the Great Road. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, Gandalf, and the King’s own personal guard rode to accompany him at the head of the column, but Éofa motioned for Truva to veer toward the rear.

“Come, we are to lead the second unit,” he said, and they fell in between the ranks of Eorlingas warriors ahead and the civilian forces behind. As the Riders in front gradually peeled out toward the northwest along the Great Road, the troops behind fanned out, strung along like a gloomy parade tapering off far into the distance. It was not an impressive force, and yet a subdued sense of pride swelled slightly in Truva’s chest, dampened only by the knowledge of their destination.

The day passed uneventfully as they marched at a brisk but manageable pace. Truva knew Théoden King was desperate to reach Éomer and Elfhelm’s forces at the Fords, yet was also cautious of exhausting the fighters he led, particularly the civilian troops. Truva similarly longed to confirm her friends’ safety, and found her frustration at their slowness of pace difficult to conceal.

The army set up camp that night in a slight dip in the grasslands, bordered on the southern side by a slight cliff that fell away to a tributary of the river Snowbourn, and almost entirely hidden by great boulders and grass far taller than the dwarf Gimli on all others. Men jumped quickly to their assigned duties, caring for their mounts and setting what fires they dared in preparation for the evening meal.

It felt to Truva as though multiple days had passed since they set out that morning. She sat frowning at her own secretive fire, Bron contentedly munching on the flora behind her, and her mind feeling overwhelmed and yet void at the same time. Concerns over her friends that lay both before and behind, of the inescapability of approaching events, of the unpracticed civilian fighters in her care, of the strangers that perhaps weren’t so strange after all— Truva simply could not grasp any single thought and focus on it before it slipped through the loosely woven nets of her mind.

She remembered then the letter that Héodis had given her, and was just beginning to pull it from beneath her jerkin when she heard a rustle in the grass to her right, where she perceived Aragorn’s approaching figure through the darkness, and quickly replaced the letter. When he reached the weak ring of light thrown by Truva’s fire, the Ranger thrust an arm toward her.

“You have not eaten,” he said. It was not a question, though neither was it a statement, and so Truva felt compelled to accept the small bundle he offered. She found Aragorn’s way of speaking inscrutable, and indeed his entire personage wholly incomprehensible; nevertheless, she applied herself to the slightly squashed bread and roasted rabbit Aragorn had procured.

He sat down beside her and began to eat as well. Truva waited for him to speak, assuming he had come for some purpose, though he seemed disinclined to say anything. Truva shifted uncomfortably several times before realizing the task of breaking the silence fell upon her.

“What of Legolas and Gimli?” she said, mouth half full primarily to conceal her discomfort, but also because she was surprisingly ravenous. Aragorn simply pointed to some spot off in the distance, beyond the other riders similarly situated in their mealtime, and continued to eat. Uneasy silence reigned again as Truva sought another, more engaging topic.

Her eyes caught sight of a glint at Aragorn’s sternum, a piece of silver finery half hidden by his tunic and strange Elven cloak, reflecting the firelight and yet seeming to be a source of light in and of itself. It contrasted so strangely with the simplicity of Aragorn’s other attire, and while Truva did not wish to stare, she simultaneously found herself unable to look away, drawn deeply into the calm that emanated from it.

When Aragorn leaned in to stoke the dying fire, the jewel swung forward and Truva could see swathed in the wings of an eagle a gem, the color of which was such an entrancing emerald that it appeared in her eyes to be a haven of greenery, a forest unreachable from the outside world. Éowyn’s words came flooding back to Truva’s mind, for surely this must be the jewel she had spoken of.

“Your necklace—” Truva began, though she stopped short when Aragorn froze; yet Éowyn’s request lay heavy in her mind, and she felt a great sense of obligation to her friend. “How did you come by it?”

Quite some time passed before the Dúnadan spoke. “It is the Stone of Eärendil, or Elessar. It was given to me.”

“By whom? A woman?” Truva pried, for though she had not said so much, Truva had understood Éowyn’s interest in the jewel to be a reflection of her interest in the man himself; were the necklace a lover’s token, however, Éowyn’s hopes would be dashed.

“You could say so,” Aragorn replied cryptically, taking a tone that discouraged any further questions. In the silence that followed, Truva began to wonder whether the topic was making the Ranger especially taciturn, or if he had simply always been so reserved. Perhaps her own quiet nature had blinded her to Aragorn’s extreme reticence.

When he finished eating, Aragorn stood and stalked off without a word, leaving Truva to finish her meal, swamped in bewilderment. Even as she curled up to sleep as much as possible before her miserable, two-hours-past-midnight watch, she still pondered the curiosity of his behavior.

Truva’s watch passed uneventfully albeit wretchedly in the chill night air, and she was able to catch an additional brief nap before the day started in earnest. It was not long after she woke, as the camp bustled quietly with hurried breakfasts and tacking up, when the subdued calm of early dawn was broken by desperate shouts that flew up from the soldiers camped in the northern area.

Immediately set upon edge, panic flooded through Truva as she drew her sword and mounted up onto Bron. He deftly wove his way northward through the chaos until Truva noticed a strange sound also arising from behind them: a familiar snarl that had become ingrained into her mind ever since the battle at the Fords.

She turned, dread dragging the pit of her stomach down to her feet, only to see a massive, revolting Warg steal out from behind a boulder just beyond the southern edge of camp, near the river. Its Orc rider was tiny, yet the sounds he made sent jarring chills skittering across Truva’s skin.

Bron immediately sprung unprompted over the heads of the other Eorlingas who still fumbled with their gear or – in the case of several civilians – stared agape at this unexpected threat. Bron covered the distance in only a few bounds, leaping agilely to avoid the snapping jaws of the Warg and bringing Truva within striking distance of its rider. She slashed at the Orc, barely catching him on the arm where his armor deflected the worst of the damage, before managing a backward swing that sliced the Warg open behind the ear. It let out a roar that deafened her.

Bron circled around tightly to give Truva a second run, though the writhing motions of the Warg made it almost impossible to hit any significant target. Truva nicked it in the chest but failed to inflict any damage. As Bron circled about yet again, a spear appeared as if out of nowhere, sprouting from under the Warg’s jaw through the back of its head. The creature collapsed instantaneously, and Truva took the opportunity to dispatch its rider as well. Turning, she saw Éomód standing aghast at his own action, and in that moment a great deal of Truva’s anxiety over his wellbeing was dispelled.

“Well done!” she cried to Éomód, though her peripheral vision warned that their task was far from complete. Truva pulled the spear from the carcass of the Warg and returned it to Éomód, shouting to all that could hear as she did so: “Mount up if you have a horse, fall into formation if not!”

Three additional Wargs and their riders appeared over the crest of a hill then, approaching at a breakneck pace, and a similar commotion from all about the rest of camp suggested that many others were closing in. Truva drew her bow and fixed the foremost creature in her sight, and by some fortuitous stroke of luck it was directly into the left eye that her shaft burrowed, sending the beast tumbling forward. Undaunted, its rider disentangled himself and leapt up behind his comrade onto a following Warg.

The creature and its two riders bore down upon Truva, followed closely by the third. Truva loosed two more volleys, yet she failed to inflict any significant damage as they continued to gain on her, so Truva set aside her bow and drew her blade. Even as she did so, the third rider veered off toward a cluster of terrified civilians, their swords clutched in trembling hands.

“Ah, son of Eorl, I will regret this,” Truva muttered to herself as she pulled her dagger from her belt and heaved it with all of her might in the direction of the single rider, who toppled forward with the blade stuck in his spine. Truva had no time to target his mount, however, for immediately the Warg with two riders was upon her, and she found herself frantically batting away their lowered spears in defense, with no opportunity for counterattack.

Just then, Éofa sprang from behind to Truva’s aid – having already rescued the circle of civilians – and sliced the Warg along its flank as he rushed past. Upon a second attack, Truva succeeded in catching the first rider beneath the arm with her blade, and shoved the second off again with a well-placed boot to the chest; yet he caught her foot, and Truva found herself sliding off Bron alongside the Orc. Twisting her body, she managed to land atop her reeking enemy and used the butt of her sword to render him unconscious, then rose and drove her blade down through his chest to ensure he would never rise again.

Hearing a startled whinny behind her, Truva immediately whirled around, only to drive her blade deep into the throat of a Warg that was rushing up on Bron. Her arm was grazed by the claws of the beast in its death throes, though the wound was not deep, and she laid a food upon its mangy fur as she attempted to withdraw her sword, but it would not give. As she struggled, the downed Warg’s rider extricated himself from beneath his mount and lunged toward Truva.

Weaponless, she was forced to dodge the Orc’s wild swings, yet upon the third pass she positioned herself to dart in close and attack his hamstring with a low kick. The Orc fell to one knee, and in one continuous motion Truva cleared his blade and sent her other leg straight toward his jaw. Taking advantage of her opponent’s dazed state, she snapped his own weapon from his hands and drew it across his throat.

“I knew I was going to regret throwing that dagger,” Truva muttered to herself as she bent once more to withdrawing her sword from the Warg, succeeding this time. “What did Éomer teach me? Never let go of your weapon; never, never.”

Looking about, Truva saw Éofa struggling with a new pack of Wargs and dashed to return the favor of aid, calling to her the others that continued to mill about, unsure of themselves. In her mission to defend the Eorlingas, Truva worked at times to draw soldiers into formation, plunging into the fray unaided at others, yet always she rode a wave of desperation that swallowed everything that dared attempt to dam it.

She fought with blind rashness, and it was thus unwittingly that the tip of her blade fell suddenly unopposed upon the grass at her side. Slowly returning to her senses, Truva raised her head and took in the destruction that had been wrought. The grassland that had been their camp the night before was now awash in a confusion of slain bodies, human and animal, of the Mark and of Isengard, of supplies and tents and banners and all manner of paraphernalia.

Truva’s eyes immediately cast about the scene, searching for Éomód. Spotting him sitting with his back leaning against a dead Warg, she flew to his side and felt about for injuries, almost collapsing in relief when she discovered him to be entirely unharmed, albeit exhausted. It was also to great elation that she spied her dagger hilt protruding from an Orc carcass just beside her friend, and she wiped it upon the grass before sheathing it once more.

Next Truva sought out Éofa, who was tending to those who were wounded. Truva assisted her captain as he made his way through camp, performing the ugly task of triage and doing all he could for those in need of medical help. It was when they passed from one man whose gashed leg they secured with a tourniquet to another whose arm appeared broken that a subtle notion urged Truva to look about her. She was not quite sure for what she was searching as she held the splinters of a spear in place so that Éofa might wind makeshift bandages to brace the man’s shattered arm, yet slowly she came to suspect that what she was looking for could not be found.

“Aragorn!” came Gimli’s anguished cry from across the battleground. Truva realized in an instant that it was the Ranger her subconscious had noticed the absence of. She helped Éofa tie off the bandages on the man’s arm, then stalked over to the Dwarf who was crouched with Théoden King over the body of a dying Orc, interrogating the creature. She arrived just as the Orc pointed toward the cliff and the river beyond.

Truva looked to the King, who glanced at the cliff momentarily before sweeping his gaze over the carnage sprawled out before them. He did not hesitate before he said, “We are in danger here. There may be more riders behind these, and their presence in the first place means our men at the Fords have surely fallen. We must make our way to Hornburg immediately and hope that Éomer and Elfhelm have the foresight to do likewise.”

Théoden King turned then and raised his voice for all to hear. “Fall into formation as best you can! Carry only what you need for battle! We must gain the safety of Hornburg before nightfall.” He paused fleetingly before adding, “Leave the dead.”

“My Lord,” said Truva quietly.

“No,” Théoden King replied, forbidding her unspoken request. “Our men need leaders, now more than ever. There is no purpose in chasing ghosts.”

“Such a fall would not be impossible to survive,” she said as she glanced over the edge of the cliff. “The tributary is deep here, and well I know this area – the recruits ran training missions often along these foothills. I will waste no time, and shall abandon the search as soon as I deem it fruitless.”

The King appeared to reconsider upon hearing her words, so she urged, “Missing is not dead, my lord.”

After great deliberation, the King made up his mind. “Very well, but search only as long as you have reasonable hope,” he said quietly, then with a quick glance at the Dwarf and Elf, he added, “And go secretly, for there are those whose further absence we cannot afford, though they would certainly abandon our cause for the sake of their companion. The fate of Lord Aragorn is inauspicious, yet that of our people is not – at least, not yet. We can spare no soldier.”

“I shall return with two,” said Truva, and thus it was as the rest of the company reconvened and resumed its progress towards Helm’s Deep once more that Truva bundled up a meager collection of medical supplies and set off in the opposite direction, downstream along the tributary toward Snowbourn. There would be no avoiding the river having fallen from the cliff, Truva rationalized, and she was certain there would be tracks had Aragorn managed to pull himself from its waters.

Bron clipped along at a pace slightly faster than the river as Truva scanned the banks, hoping Aragorn would have sense enough to exit on the north side and leave signs easier for her to see than those on the far bank. As the morning wore on to midday, it was purely Bron’s loyalty that prevented his pace from lagging, for Truva could tell he grew fatigued, and she hoped that the urgency of their situation was somehow conveyed to her companion.

Midday turned to afternoon, which in turn transformed into early evening. The beauty of orange dusk tinging the eastward sky was lost on Truva, for her eyes never left the river; she persisted even as the light grew dim and she struggled to discern potential signals. Whip-poor-wills sang and danced in their nightly feast of bugs, yet she paid them little mind.

Truva’s feelings of disheartenment became increasingly challenging to ignore, however, as did her sympathy for Bron. She dismounted and allowed him to trail behind and drink from the river as she continued halfheartedly on foot. She proceeded in this way for another hour or so, until the blackness of the sky was impenetrable and she could see nothing in the darkness; and having found not one single indication that the Ranger lived, Truva could not help but despair. She slowed her pace and allowed Bron to catch up, deciding at long last that it was time to rejoin the Eorlingas.

Bron trotted toward Truva, then continued right on past her.

“Bron!” she called out. “Where in Helm’s name are you off to?” She jogged after the horse, only to watch him wade into the river and shake his muzzle out into the distance. Truva waded in after him and laid a hand on his haunch, following his line of sight, wholly bemused.

Her confusion was instantly cleared, however, for there, not far from the opposite shore, was the body of Aragorn, partially submerged and caught upon a shoal. Truva did not hesitate to thrash through the shallows and dive into the deeper waters of the river, swimming to the shoal. Éomer’s training had made her a competent swimmer, albeit not a strong one, and she struggled to reach Aragorn.

When Truva pulled herself upon the shoal, she flipped his facedown form over and bent her ear before his mouth, attempting to glean any sign of breathing, but she could not be sure, for if he was she could neither feel nor hear it. Truva panicked and reached for his neck to check for a pulse. Immense relief washed over her when she discerned the faintest beat of a heart, causing her to almost cry in her exhaustion.

She pulled Aragorn onto her chest and floated on her back, launching herself into the river and allowing it to bear them downstream a ways as she guided them back toward the other bank. Bron followed her progress and stood patiently as Truva checked the Ranger for injuries and, finding minor cuts and a great deal of fresh bruising but nothing immediately life-threatening, struggled to load his limp figure into the saddle.

“This— would— be— so— much— easier— if— you— were— conscious!” Truva said, giving Aragorn a hearty shove with each word, only for him to fall over the other side of Bron in the end. Truva heaved a deep sigh and started again, Bron standing as still as a virtuous statue.

When at great last Truva succeeded in propping Aragorn up in the saddle, she promptly leapt up behind as to prevent him from falling again. Yet from that vantage point, an ever so faint gleam caught her eye, and when she looked closer she saw trapped amongst some reeds an emerald swathed in silver wings – the jewel Aragorn wore about his neck.

Truva dismounted once again, careful to balance Aragorn in the saddle so that he would not fall, and returned to the sandy bank. The chain waved gently in the waters of the river as she approached, and it was with great care that Truva extricated the precious cargo from the reeds and placed it in her pocket before mounting up again. She had scarcely settled back into the saddle before Bron took off like lightning, as though he hadn’t spent the morning in battle or all the time since exerting himself to his limit.

They made great haste through the night as they traveled back along the river toward the foothills of the White Mountains and Helm’s Deep. They soon regained the Great Road, along which Bron coursed, though Truva could feel him straining beneath her, surefooted even in the dark.

“Just get us to Hornburg, love, and you can rest there,” she urged.

Dawn was just beginning to steal its pale fingers across the eastern sky when Truva thought she heard Aragorn whisper something. She reigned Bron in and shifted so that she could see Aragorn’s face. His eyes fluttered weakly and his mouth formed words, yet Truva still failed to properly catch what it was he said. She drew her ear even closer to Aragorn’s lips:

“—Orcs,” he said, not even a whisper. Truva drew back stared at him in shock, then she noticed the hand that dangled at his side, struggling to point northeastward, and she saw it: far out in the distance was a black haze that clung to the horizon, hardly even a smudge, yet an even greater cloud of brown dust thrown up behind the blackness was illuminated in the early morning sun. An entire army of the enemy was bearing down upon Hornburg.

Truva gave a great “Hya!” to spur Bron on, though he was already streaking across the grasslands at a pace she had never known he could match. From dawn and throughout the day they raced against the great mass of darkness that seemed to expand as they approached closer. The larger it grew, the more the panic in Truva’s chest swelled. She stopped only to tend Aragorn, for Bron obstinately refused all care and snorted impatiently each time he felt their progress was not swift enough.

They were no more than three leagues from Helm’s Deep when the sun threatened dusk. Truva held her arm outstretched, her hand between the sun and horizon – now a span of less than three fingers. They would have to rush if they hoped to make it to Hornburg before dark. As Bron continued his breakneck pace, Truva scanned the land once more for the army of Orcs – close enough now that she could distinguish individuals, the sound of their clanking armor and weaponry carrying across the plains.

A new sight also came into view: before the massive army, small clusters of men – dressed in a way that marked them as Eorlingas – streaked across the plains. Peering closer, Truva could see all manner of figures, some alone, some in pairs or groups, man and Orc alike, chasing and being chased. Chaos reigned in the foothills about the entrance to Helm’s Deep.

“These men must be the remnants of Éomer’s forces at the Fords!” gasped Truva, though Aragorn merely groaned in reply. They raced across the remaining distance and threaded their way across the great rift that Truva knew from the maps she had seen to be Helm’s Dike. She swiftly slew a handful of pursuing Orcs that hounded a trio of Eorlingas, then joined the three as they approached the entrance to Hornburg. Truva searched for familiar faces but the fighters were only passing acquaintances.

The Hornburg loomed before them, even more impressive in its proximity than when Truva had observed it from a distance. There was little time to take in the sight, however; the Eorlingas raced up the causeway as the blast of a horn greeted them. The gate was ordered open, and the guards allowed only the tiniest of gaps for Truva, Aragorn, and the others to slip through.


	12. The Battles of Hornburg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Mahler, Symphony No. 2 in C minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2KcsjA_PEQ&ab_channel=tomekkobialka)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Glastonbury Abbey ruins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veLVZ939fpQ&pbjreload=101&ab_channel=StardustVibes-RelaxingSounds)

Théoden King stood just beyond the gates to give Truva, Aragorn, and the other straggling Eorlingas entrance. He took in Aragorn’s battered appearance and immediately cried out, “Get this man up to the keep! The infirmary is located within.”

Without pausing for ceremony, not even to admire the fortress she had so long desired to enter, Truva followed the direction of the King’s pointing finger as Bron’s hooves clattered against the flagstone battlements. He flew up the steps with astounding agility, and it was but a matter of moments before Truva was lowering the limp figure of Aragorn onto a field cot under the watchful eye of the healers.

They set upon him immediately, Truva watching anxiously over their shoulder. As they worked, a page came to relieve Truva of Bron and lead him to the stables deeper within the keep. Truva was loath to part from her horse, and even when the page succeeded in prying the reins from her hands she made as if to follow them.

“Please,” he said, “We will treat him as the returning hero that he is.” And so it was with reluctance that Truva watched Bron be led away. There was nothing for her to do but stand about and get underfoot of the healers as they tended to Aragorn, tutting all the while at her clumsiness.

Truva suddenly recalled the jewel that she had stowed in her pocket, having found it floating in the shallows of the tributary when she pulled Aragorn from its waters. Withdrawing it, she allowed the pendant to dangle on its chain in front of her eyes, taking in its every detail: the eagle so realistically forged it seemed poised to claw her hands ere it flew off, and jade so richly green that the lushest of forests would be put to shame. The silver eyes of the bird pierced her very spirit, conveying a storm of emotions that threw her into an abyss of simultaneous euphoria and melancholy.

Truva gazed at the jewel a moment longer before ripping her consciousness back into reality. There was a brief lull in activity as the healers were drawn away by the arrival of another injured warrior, and Truva took the opportunity to approach the supine figure of Aragorn, lifting his head as gently as her rough hands would allow and once again securing the treasure about the Ranger’s neck.

A healer came shortly to shoo Truva away, insisting that her presence was of no help. “He will be fine, I assure you. Your gloom and doom serves only to hinder us,” she chided. Feeling somewhat askew, like a table with one slightly shorter leg, Truva ducked out of the infirmary into the open passageway beyond. Just outside the entryway, when looking back over her shoulder at a disturbance near the main gates, Truva collided with Éofa and sent them both sprawling.

“Oh, Truva, there you are!” he said, picking himself up and offering a hand to Truva. “Glad I am to see you alive, though I expected no less! The King said you had returned, and that I might find you in the infirmary. He requests your presence, for there is a council to be held in the main hall at this very moment.”

“Very well,” said Truva, dusting herself off. They walked along the passageway, and through the stone archways Truva was finally able to look out onto the Deeping-coomb from their high vantage point. Little could be seen in the darkness, though the faint scar of Helm’s Dike stretched across the gorge, illuminated by the torches of Eorlingas warriors who defended it. High above, the looming spurs of Thrihyrne were more felt than seen, their darkness swallowing up the watery light of the rising moon.

The hall was a rush of noise when Truva entered behind Éofa. It was packed with military leaders and advisors, all of whom had differing yet equally strong ideas on how best to defend the Hornburg. The King stood collectedly amidst them, bending his ear to each argument in turn. Erkenbrand Marshal – having struck out from the Hornburg in aid of Éomer and Elfhelm, whose forces had been defeated in a second assault from Isengard – had returned and was engaged in a most raucous shouting match with his second in command over whether or not to ride out again and rally the Eorlingas that still lay beyond the Deeping-coomb.

Then, when Éofa struck out across the hall, Truva followed his line of movement and spotted Éomer conversing with a group of five men who all spoke at once. She ran to him and fought the unexpected desire to leap into the Marshal’s arms as he turned; and though even so much was a great show of affection for Truva, she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and he greeted her likewise in the way of warriors.

“I knew there was no reason to worry, yet I could not help it,” said Truva, patting the Marshal’s shoulder once more to ensure that he was no illusion.

“It was not me you should have worried for,” he said, his expression speaking fluently of his relief in laying eyes on her once more. “Save your concern for our men who did not make it.”

“May Helm protect and guide them on their next journey,” said Truva, clasping her hands before her and bowing her head a moment. “Elfhelm Marshal has not returned?”

“No, and many others still lie beyond our protection; you may worry for them,” said Éomer. “And save some worry for yourself! I was told you went off alone on a wild goose chase in Orc-infested territory?”

“It was not me who told him so!” interjected Éofa, listening in on their conversation.

“Yet I am alive and well, and found my goose!” said Truva.

“I heard also that you are a true Eorlingas now, as declared by the King,” said Éomer, “Though I must admit I never viewed you in any other manner.”

“Ah, that I _did_ tell him,” said Éofa with a rather smug expression. Truva made as if to reply, but the King had been listening to their conversation and took the opportunity to bring order to the congregation.

“It is with a great debt of gratitude that we hail the return of our Rider, Truva,” he called, the timbre of his voice rising easily above the hubbub. “It is thanks to her that our guest and unparalleled warrior Aragorn returns among us.”

A great cheer rose among those present, yet a single voice of dissent also rang out.

“And in what state does he return?” cried the Elf Legolas, stepping forth. “Aragorn is in no condition to fight.”

“Were it not for Truva, he might very well be dead,” said Théoden King reasonably, though Legolas’ combativeness caused confusion to creep in among those gathered. “At the very least, he would be beyond our reach and exposed to the elements.”

“Perhaps,” said Legolas, glancing quickly at Gimli for support, and the Dwarf nodded in reply. “Or perhaps it is in this exact state that she wished for him to return.”

“What is it you imply?” demanded the King. “Speak plainly!”

“Long has it been that, with a curious eye, we have watched your fighter Truva. At first it was with confusion that we took her on as a companion, and yet confusion morphed into suspicion at the whisperings and secrecy that surround her,” said Legolas, his assuredness growing with each passing word.

“What reason have you to be suspicious? What whisperings and secrets are these?” said the King, as a murmuring rippled through the gathered leaders. Truva stood as if transfixed, her mind a tumble of confused thoughts and hurt emotions; panic gripped her, and anger that Éomer had warned her against threatened to ignite.

“Perhaps you were once equally unsuspicious of your advisor, Gríma,” said Legolas. “But disastrous were the results of your imperception. And yet, be it though he is now gone, we faced a calamitous attack only yesterday! How is it that Isengard knew not only of our departure, but that we traveled to the Fords rather than the refuge of Dunharrow also? Is it not apparent that a spy is still in your midst? And her physical appearance marks her so clearly as some other than Eorlingas!”

“How dare you question one of our warriors!” cried Éomer as both Truva and Éofa shifted uncomfortably beside him. “If you only knew of the path that brought her to us, and to this very moment! Horses run through her heart more steadfastly than many born of our land!”

The King, however, motioned for Éomer to fall silent. “Gríma was once a loyal advisor, having rightly earned his trust,” he said calmly. “And ultimately, his change in demeanor did not go unnoticed; indeed, it was the very thing that drove those most loyal from me. And yet you would accuse one who chose banishment over serving Gríma of ultimately colluding with him?”

“It is an exceptional plan of recourse,” argued Legolas. “The abundantly clear deceit of Gríma draws attention from one whose loyalty in comparison is unquestionable, allowing them to continue feeding information to Isengard, and poison into your mind.”

“If it were so, why would she assume the risk of rescuing Aragorn at all, rather than simply leaving him to his fate?” the King questioned.

“To mislead you, I would wager,” said Legolas. “She knew he would be discovered in a state unable to fight, or perhaps even ensured it herself – explaining the reason as to why my companion and I were not even informed of the search in the first place! Finding him would reassure you of her loyalty while simultaneously depriving Saruman of a deadly opponent; for keeping Aragorn under a watchful eye is arguably preferable to abandoning him and risking his potential recovery and thus ability to run amok.”

“The decision that Truva conduct the search alone was mine own. Have you no further proof for your accusations save conjecture?” said Théoden King, his gaze shifting uneasily between Legolas and Truva.

“The letter,” the Elf said simply.

“What letter?” said Théoden King, though Legolas’ reply was preempted by the massive doors of the hall bursting open to reveal the entrance of Aragorn. All eyes turned as one at this unexpected interruption, and the atmosphere stiffened as they took in the Ranger’s haggard appearance: disheveled clothes and matted hair, and the right leg that he clearly favored. He paused in the doorway, glance darting between the ambivalent King and Legolas’ aggressive stance, Éomer’s bristling appearance and Truva’s crushed countenance.

“It was Aragorn himself who first noticed the letter,” said Legolas, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“And yet we see he is alive and well, despite your claims as to Truva’s intentions!” exclaimed Éomer.

“It would not be the first time the will of Aragorn son of Arathorn was underestimated!” Legolas retorted.

“Peace!” said Aragorn softly, yet with surprising strength. “Legolas, now is not the time.”

“If not now, when?” cried Gimli, adding his voice to the melee at last. “If we have a traitor in our midst, would not the eve of battle be the most crucial time to expel them?”

“There is none more suspect than you three!” Éomer shouted back. “It was with great anticipation that we encountered you upon the plains, hoping that you might deliver blessing upon our desperate straits; and while it is true the Wizard Gandalf rendered unto us a great service, he is now gone, departed on some unknown task, leaving only those who would cast darkness and doubt upon us!”

“The letter,” said King Théoden quietly, immediately cutting the roar that swelled in the hall to a hush. He turned to Truva. “Is it true what they speak of?”

Truva froze when all eyes turned to her. Silence enveloped the keep as they waited with baited breath for her to answer the King’s question, but she was no longer under the protection of Théodred or her friends, nor was she engaging in casual conversation with those she was most comfortable; she was being asked to defend herself before a hostile audience, to speak with purpose and clarity before a gathering of so many others.

Truva felt a familiar sense of terror rise up from the pit of her stomach, clenching her chest and throat and tongue on its path to her lips, which hung open, unmoving. The image of Dregant flashed before her eyes, followed by the wrinkled features of Dernrid— Truva fought to seize the words, feeling them slipping away—

“There is a letter!” she gasped, as surprised as the others at her abrupt exclamation; once the words had emerged, however, she could not prevent herself from speaking those few that still burned in her heart. “Yet it is not what you think! I am no traitor! I have only ever harbored love for my King, Théoden of the Mark!” Even as she said these words – perhaps only possible because she spoke in the Common Tongue – Truva resisted the temptation to place her hand upon where she had tucked Héodis’ letter away beneath her jerkin.

“We witnessed her holding multiple whispered conversations with an Eorlingas woman, and it was this same woman who handed her a letter just before our departure from Edoras. Is it not unusual for the Rohirrim to be learned of their letters?” asked Legolas.

It was then that Truva understood the reason behind Aragorn’s scrutiny during the feast in Edoras, when she had held a whispered conversation with Héodis; he had suspected the nature of their communion to be dishonorable, doubts which were likely redoubled when he witnessed the letter passing between them at the gates of the city – in which case his dining with her that night along the road to Hornburg had not been a friendly overture, but an investigation. She had been slow to stow the letter away then, and perhaps the Ranger’s honesty regarding the Elessar gem had likewise not been merely informatory, but also a reminder of the power that he claimed lay behind it.

“Unusual as such knowledge of writing is, it was her similarly unusual upbringing and unusual potential that prompted me to task her with an unusual education,” said the King.

“And who was tasked with her education in this regard?” Gimli inquired.

Truva felt trapped, for she knew her answer would implicate her in the eyes of these strangers. They knew only that which they had witnessed since she had first met them upon the plains, and though Éowyn had also assisted in Truva’s linguistic education, there was clearly only one name they would consider significant. It was thus with subdued expression that Truva whispered, “Gríma.”

“Gríma!” exclaimed Gimli. “A known traitor, teaching a suspected traitor the tools with which they might conduct their treason!”

“I believe there is but one solution to this quandary,” said Legolas, extending his hand. “The letter, if you please.”

Truva slowly withdrew the letter from the breast of her jerkin where she had replaced it two nights prior, yet when Legolas reached for it, she sharply withdrew.

“You have not the right!” she spat. Truva knew precisely what was written upon its single page, and loath as she was for the letter’s contents to be revealed, she despised even more that an outsider might have the audacity to read it. She handed the letter instead to Théoden King, who solemnly unfolded the sheet of rough paper and scanned it briefly.

After a few moments, he sighed deeply. Wondering eyes scrutinized his expression, only to be left with greater bemusement as he handed the letter to Éomer, who took it upon himself to alleviate their curiosity:

“My dearest, loving Truva,” he read, “It is with great misfortune that our plans are rendered pointless for the time being. Please take Éomód into your keeping, as surely as you have kept the Mark until now. I shall try not to resent your parting too much, for I know you shall return soon, and it is at that time that we shall have a most glorious birthday celebration for our King as intended, rendered all the more splendid for your victory and safe return. May you be blessed with the strength of Helm, your Héodis.”

Utter silence reigned.

“A… birthday party?” said Éofa.

“It was to be a surprise,” said Truva abashedly. “To commemorate the return of the King’s old self after the departure of Gríma. The whispering Lord Aragorn perhaps witnessed at the feast was our inception of the idea, yet the troops’ sudden departure led us to resort to alternative means of communication. Long have Héodis and I exchanged letters, so that we might practice our letters as well as express the sentiments we are too shy to speak aloud.”

The entire hall remained suspended as if in portrait; Théoden King's chin fell to his chest, and Éomer stood as one justified, ready to counter any who dared challenge his recruit’s loyalty. Legolas and Gimli still appeared tense from the exchange, but Aragorn had not moved from his position at the door, caught between skepticism and regret.

“As I see I am not trusted, I shall depart first,” said Truva, breaking the silence. “I will serve to my greatest ability whichever decision you come to, even be it to accept my fate at the gallows of my people, or at the hands of our enemy who bear down upon us even now.”

Having spoken all that she might say, Truva stalked out of the hall, brushing past Aragorn without so much as acknowledging him. Once in the passageway beyond, a brief lull extended for an interval before the hall erupted into chaos once again. Truva did not linger to hear the multitude of arguments or their conclusion, choosing instead to seek shelter in one of the isolated lookouts along the upper battlements of the keep.

From her vantage point, she could look down upon the Deeping Wall below, hidden from the glow of fires set in tactical locations to deceive the aim of attackers. Beyond the gap in the cliffs of Thrihyrne, a stream of fiery specks rushed toward the gorge, each a single torch borne by a single enemy. Those that neared the Deeping-Coomb could almost be discerned individually, yet the torches in the distance gradually merged into one continuous string of light, winding endlessly into the darkness beyond. Their number was as unfathomable at night as it had been by day, and yet such a show of force upset Truva far less than the knowledge that she herself had – if only momentarily – also been considered the enemy.

In an attempt to bar the negative emotions from her mind, Truva applied herself to the mundane tasks of preparing for battle, beginning first with checking her arrows, though she knew that even a quiver full would be insufficient for any extended period of combat. Once she had counted the arrows thrice over, she began to methodically whet her small dagger before bending to her sword, both already sharp beyond necessity.

She was absentmindedly testing the blade of her sword, slicing the thumb of her left hand several times, when Aragorn ascended the steps to the lookout behind her. Truva intentionally ignored him, despite hearing his approach, and refused to acknowledge his presence even as he took a seat beside her.

Neither was in a rush to speak, so it was for quite some time that no sound save the rustle of marching enemy lines and the frantic shouts of Eorlingas defenses being mounted could be heard. Content with the edge on her blade at last, Truva sheathed her sword and sat with her arms folded across her chest, looking ahead only, never glancing toward her companion.

Aragorn took a deep breath, then paused another beat before saying, “It was I who put such notions into the head of Legolas; that is the only reason he said what he did.”

“So I heard,” Truva replied curtly.

“It was wrong of me to suspect you,” he continued.

“Yes, it was.”

“You must understand, I had mentioned my misgivings to Legolas only in passing, before I came to see who you truly are.”

“Who I truly am?” Truva exclaimed, her heart suddenly racing at the Ranger’s words. Pride, dignity, fury – these were feelings she had been deprived of in the Hidlands, invalidated and beaten from her until she had bowed under the inescapable weight of submission; yet they surged now in her heart, all the more fierce for having been absent for so long.

“You have entirely no comprehension of who I am, stranger from the North!” she cried. “You were so quick to mark me as _other_ without understanding how my presence among the Eorlingas so much as came to be!”

The confrontation in the keep had caused a tumult of emotion to erupt within Truva, for though the years had eased somewhat her sense of disbelonging, small incidents were a constant reminder of how greatly she differed from the Eorlingas. As she only ever witnessed things from her own perspective, Truva often forgot how her hair and features marked her as distinct from those born in the Mark, yet she knew it was not so for others.

Nor was it her appearance alone that marked her as unalike; her accent, her vocabulary, her habits all marked her as dissimilar – reminding her of how her native tongue was not that of the Mark, of how she had no blood relatives with which to celebrate holidays, of how something as simple as swearing had at one time been unfamiliar to her. She was reminded, too, of how those around her marked her even more clearly as different in their attempts to make her feel accepted, although she knew their efforts to be guided by the kindest intentions, and for that she was eternally grateful.

Truva paused a moment to collect her thoughts before speaking, for though she had her moments of loquacity, they were not frequent and often shared only with her most intimate friends. The passing of Théodred meant the loss of her closest confidant, however, and ever since the events at the Fords Truva had allowed the trickling stream in her heart to swell unchecked; waters roiled behind the dam she had long ago constructed within: an edifice soon fit to come crashing down upon he who sundered it.

“I once believed that the stories I was told of the Rangers were naught but legend,” she spoke at last, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure, “Yet of late, even legends seem to have their truth. If all that I heard was unerring, I cannot expect you to understand, Ranger of the North, for even in your solitude the choice to pursue it was your own. Never have I been afforded such luxury.”

Truva took a deep, trembling breath before continuing. “You were so quick to mark me as having a different origin than the Eorlingas – and you are not wrong, of course. But what knowledge have you of my origin?” Aragorn shook his head to indicate he had none.

“I was a slave of the Hidden Lands,” said Truva, ignoring Aragorn when he started suddenly. His reaction suggested he was familiar with that region and its brutality, yet Truva felt none of her characteristic reticence; indeed, she felt overcome by the driving need to extrapolate upon each macabre, harrowing detail. Something had sparked within Truva; she knew not when this change had occurred – whether it had been the battle at the Fords, or the confrontation just then in the keep, or if it had been some gradual shift that she had not discerned until that very moment – yet she felt unable to stem its flow.

“I was deprived of any familial relations from my youngest of days. I was raised in violence, and around that violence all my relationships were oriented. The only remotely parental figures to me were those adults who trained young prospective fighters; they trained us, yet they were guided by hatred, and by fear. They loathed us, and beat us, and taught us in turn to loathe and beat each other. Their greatest fear was that they were creating their own replacements, and yet their owners would punish them should they fail to instruct us to the best of their ability.

“And when we were grown, we understood their resignation; for despite all the physical torture we endured – the beatings, the whip, the starvation, the water deprivation, exposure to the elements, boiling heat in summer and hypothermia in winter – the resignation was the worst, recognizing that the elder fighters’ past was our future, and the future of all those who came after. We endured day after indistinguishable day, our only company other broken fighters, gamblers come to appraise your fighting condition, and our own resignation.

“Our owners did not even need whips, nor any other form of punishment, for they had developed a system in which we beat ourselves,” said Truva, pausing momentarily to catch her breath. Aragorn sat motionless all the while, ear tilted toward her and intent upon her words, yet unable to fully face the onslaught.

“Then the Eorlingas saved me,” continued Truva, for there were still words left unspoken. “They gave unto me that which I had not even dared to dream of for myself, yet that which every being deserves: humanity. They acknowledged me as an individual, as someone with my own motives, my own hopes and dreams, my own spirit. You cannot possibly comprehend what it is to be granted your own self if you have never been deprived of it.

“And so, because they gave me everything, I shall return to them everything – to devote to the Mark anything less than my entire being would be unspeakably insufficient. That the Eorlingas in turn provide me with a sense of belonging I have always desired is due to nothing save their own goodwill; and perhaps it is greed on my part, yet I have come to consider Théoden King as a true father figure, and the others as the family I had never known. Am I wrong in hoping for so much?

“And still you marched in, oblivious to this circumstance yet certain in your knowledge that my physical attributes indicated moral deficiencies! Though you were not wrong in surmising that my origins differ from the Eorlingas, it is in actuality due to such differences that I could never betray those who showed me love, when I knew not what it was!

“I well know that I am _‘Other’_! I struggle to forget it every day! Some days I am successful – yet those are the days I delude myself. On all remaining days, I have no choice but to confront my Otherness, and prove once more to those who doubt me that it is not a weakness but a strength!” And with that, Truva fell silent, breathless from her unexpected diatribe. Never in her life had she spoken so many words at once, yet once she had opened the floodgates, she found that she could not close them again.

Her outburst had a great cathartic effect, and Truva realized her words had been spoken more for herself than Aragorn, and though she was not ashamed of the tears that had begun coursing down her cheek she turned her face from Aragorn; she did not care to see his reaction, whether it be disbelief or pity, or any other sentiment. Silence reigned between the two for quite some time as they each collected their thoughts, and Aragorn realized at last that it was his responsibility to make amends.

“It was from the first moment I became aware of you extricating me from the river that I knew my judgement of you had been wrong,” he said. “In these dark times, I have grown too accustomed to attributing ill intentions where none exist, and oft has this led me astray. You yourself have witnessed this, when we first encountered Gandalf in the woods – I thought him to be Saruman, when indeed hardly a more loyal companion there ever was than Gandalf the Grey.”

Truva was reluctant to acknowledge Aragorn’s perspective, so she turned even further away, and yet somehow she could still sense the glint of firelight in his eyes.

“It was me who planted doubt into the minds of my companions, and I therefore do not wish to make any excuse for myself; I desire only that you might reconsider your feelings toward Legolas and Gimli. They are good, exceptional examples of their kind, and as loyal as can be when they see the truth behind your actions.”

“I have little knowledge of Elves, yet I knew of Dwarves long before I ever encountered your company,” said Truva with distaste. “I bear little fondness for them.”

“You said you were from the Hidlands,” Aragorn stated. “As a Ranger, I have known many a Dwarf who have traversed that territory. Most unsavory characters.”

“They trade slaves for minerals,” Truva stated plainly.

“Yes,” said Aragorn. “But as it is with Men, so it is with Dwarves. Do you believe the Eorlingas to be of the same stock of Men who raised and enslaved you?”

“Of course not,” Truva said incredulously. “One oppressed me, one freed me.”

“And it is likewise with Dwarves, and all peoples,” said Aragorn. “You cannot judge an entire race by the heinous actions of a few. I can assure you that Gimli’s kin have never traded in slaves; and as for Legolas, he is headstrong but just. Having proven yourself trustworthy, he will come around.

“I regret having placed in their minds any doubt as to your loyalty; the blame lies squarely on my shoulders,” Aragorn continued, “I am sorry most of all that I could not prevent them from voicing such doubts before the King you would call father, after all you had been through to aid me.”

“I lent succor to you neither for your own sake, nor for my own,” said Truva, turning at last to face this Man who would call himself the heir of Isildur. “There is another to whom I owe a great deal, and it is for their sake I went in search of you.”

Truva saw a contemplative expression pass across Aragorn’s countenance as he attempted to make sense of her words, and she desperately hoped she had not said too much. She quickly glanced away when his gaze scrutinized her own face.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for whose sake it was that you saved me,” he said.

“Yes, it would,” said Truva. Neither spoke further then, turning to face the great expanse before them, and it was apparent then how frighteningly close the army of Isengard had come. The sound of the Orcs’ marching now swelled within the gorge, and while the torches of those closest to the Deeping Wall had been extinguished, it still seemed as though a massive sea of fire extended beyond the rocky spurs of Thrihyrne as far as the eye could see.

After some time, Aragorn asked unprompted, “How do you feel upon this precipice of battle?”

“Nervous,” Truva replied frankly without pausing for thought.

Aragorn turned to her in surprise. “You do not seem as one who would be nervous in the face of a fight,” he said.

“There is little that does not cause me to be nervous,” said Truva. “I fought every other day or so for nigh on ten years, and still nerves plagued me before every match. Now, the stakes are unparalleled; the lives of many depend on me to perform my utmost.

“It was also once said to me that nervousness is the body coming alive, that it is horses running through the heart,” she added, her voice hushed.

“Heavy is the burden you have placed upon yourself,” said Aragorn, then paused introspectively before continuing, “In the past I have often sought to hide my unease, yet in hearing you speak of it so openly I am reassured. Let us join in battle, anxious but determined.”

He held out his hand, asking not for forgiveness but for peace, and Truva considered but a moment before she placed her hand firmly in his, and they shook. Together they rose and returned below, where preparations for battle were being finalized. Théoden King stood grandly upon the ramparts that bordered the inner court, his newfound youthfulness raising him to renewed heights, his white hair stark in the darkness yet warmed by the golden gleam of the firelight reflected upon his battle regalia.

Beside the King stood Erkenbrand, Marshal of the West-mark, ecstatic to be reunited in battle with his commander once more. He barked out orders to the swarming forces as one terrace lower Éomer annoyed Éofa with his continual pacing upon the heavily fortified gate. Legolas was occupied with the organization of an archery division along the Deeping Wall, his Dwarf friend with great axe in tow. Aragorn moved quickly to join his friends, though Truva wished to have no part of them and reported instead to Éomer, who greeted her with a nod in their direction.

“Shame on those who would accuse you of anything save unfaltering fealty,” he said, with a pointed glare in the direction of Aragorn and the others. “I hope it is needless to say the King and captains were all quick to forgive the charges. You are, now more than ever, one of us.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Truva.

“Yet it is with great reluctance that I must place you both under Lord Aragorn’s command in addition to my own, for your skills are needed equally along the Deeping Wall and above the gate. Do you object greatly?”

“As you command, so it shall be done,” said Truva, and took a position at the end of the archers upon the Wall, a stance that enabled her to assist wherever she was ordered. She looked not to her new commander, however, resentful as she still was and fully aware he was too preoccupied to take note as such, and turned instead to the vast nightmare that loomed.

Battle seemed imminent, for the rumble of the enemy below was distinct, echoing the rumble of horses’ hooves that raced through Truva’s heart. All enemy torches in the expanse from the Wall to Helm’s Dike had been extinguished, yet a roiling darkness could be discerned through the stony embrasures. Anticipation heightened all senses and emotions, and just as the tension reached its climax a strike of lightning split across the sky, accompanied by a peal of thunder so loud the reverberations could be felt through the air. Torrential rain began to pour down.

Truva clenched her jaw as the thick drops drummed patterns on her armor before slowly trickling through the crevices to her clothing below. Though the sensation was uncomfortable at first, energy coursed through her increasingly the more drenched she became, and it was a matter of mere minutes before Truva was thoroughly soaked; electricity seemed to crackle through the air and impart a perverse, unparalleled thrill.

Storms had always entranced Truva, and even back in the Hidlands such days had been coveted days to fight among the slaves. The practical element of rain meant a cooling effect on their strained bodies, yet there was also some unknown wildness that overtook the fighters when tempestuous weather reigned.

Down below the Wall, the deluge could also be heard upon the armor of the beasts that lurked there. Time was momentarily suspended, the drops hanging in the air as a single tongue of lightning licked the sky and with its blinding light illuminated the scene: Orcs amassed within the gorge and the Eorlingas standing resolutely upon its last defenses.

Tense energy erupted into action in an instant. Though Truva had heard no signal from either side, she observed as the foremost ranks of Orcs released a volley of arrows toward the ramparts; and though most of the shafts clattered harmlessly against the stone, a few found their target. A quick motion from Éomer ordered the Eorlingas to hold, so rather than retaliating Truva took the opportunity to scurry about and collect the filthy and oily yet useful Orc arrows. One could never be overly prepared, she shrugged to herself as the other fighters looked on in bemusement.

As Truva moved back into position, those stationed upon the Deeping Wall faced renewed volleys of arrows, more lethal for the enemy having adjusted their range. Aragorn prepared the ranks of archers, readying them to retaliate upon command from Théoden King, and at last it came when Éomer relayed the cry:

“Fire!”

Truva drew her bow at last. The events at the Fords and the encounter with the Uruk-Hai before Fangorn seemed but skirmishes in comparison to the conflict that washed upon the gates of Hornburg; mere battles dwarfed by the full scale of war. She breathed in deep – unhurried, calculating – then peered beyond the embrasure and loosed an arrow at the first target that came into her line of sight. She missed the target, yet her arrow glanced off the Orc’s helmet only to drive through the eye of another charging behind, felling the second Orc instantly.

The act did not send a shock of horror through her as it had at the Fords, nor did it give her any sense of illogical pleasure, the likes of which she had experienced when battling the Uruks. Nevertheless, it carried a notion of finality, an acknowledgement that Truva had turned long ago from any path that would allow for the evasion of such monumental events, that her active participation signaled an acceptance of her part to be played. She grimly drew another arrow and set it to her cheek, turning once more to the task of beating back the advancing masses.

Just then, a commotion upon the causeway told of the danger that gathered before the main gate. Between volleys of arrows, Truva peered out beyond the parapet to observe a company of Orcs and Men of Dunland marching two stout battering rams forward, protected by a shell of shields.

“Éomer! The gate!” she cried, noticing Éomer was preoccupied with the archers before him and did not have a good vantage point of the causeway. Aragorn heard her call and quickly assessed the situation himself.

“Stay here,” he ordered Legolas. “The archers look to you for leadership.” With that, the Ranger sprinted along the Deeping Wall to Éomer’s position.

“Please forgive me for my indiscretion and misjudgment of your warrior,” he spoke to the Marshal. “As a token of my sincerity, I offer you my blade now, and hope that you will join me in the defense of your people.”

Truva could feel Éomer’s eyes turn to her, and although she still grudged Aragorn his actions, she also believed that in facing a common enemy it was best to set all discord aside. She wished foremost for Éomer to arrive at his own determination, however, and so she subtly cocked her head, giving him no indication of her opinion on the matter.

“Cruel as your accusations have been,” said Éomer, never taking his eyes from Truva’s impassive expression, “I do believe they came from a place of sincerity and concern for our cause. I know not yet whether I shall forgive you, but let us draw our swords and fight together.”

As they raced off toward the gate, Truva turned back to her bow. Legolas had taken over command for Aragorn, instructing the Eorlingas to aim toward the Orcs that had begun maneuvering gigantic ladders toward the Wall. The Riders loosed volley after unceasing volley, taking turns to reload, yet desperate as they were to fend off the enemy the approach of the menacing war machines still did not halt, or even slow.

Despite the Eorlingas’s efforts, the base of the ladders came within close proximity to the walls, and Truva could hear the cries of Uruks below as they strained to leverage the immense wooden contraptions upright. She abandoned at last her bow and drew her sword in preparation for the Uruks’ attack, yet anxious to see how Éomer fared, she glanced toward the main gate during a brief lull.

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that she noted the enemy’s battering rams had been all but abandoned, and Éomer and Aragorn stood upon the ramp surrounded by a swathe of slain bodies. She watched as they both turned back to the battlements, their work completed, yet even in that very moment two Orcs that had lain falsely amongst the bodies sprung up, swinging wildly at the Eorlingas commander and his Dúnadan companion.

Truva could do nothing save let out an unearthly cry; had she still held her bow in hand she might have let loose a volley in their defense, as deficient as her archery skills were – yet it was her sword hilt she clutched, useless across the vast distance that separated her and her Marshal.

Her shout did not go unheard, however. Legolas stood directly beside her, and in hearing her call his attention was brought to the situation upon the causeway. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Elf drew two arrows already notched to his bow and let fly. One struck the giant Orc that leapt for Éomer right through the ear, the other plunging into the neck of the second Orc that already had its arms about Aragorn’s torso.

Legolas paused but a second to confirm both enemies had been well and truly slayed before returning his focus to the rising ladders. Truva stared in astonishment for some time before she finally regained her senses and followed the Elf’s lead, a wave of gratitude washing over her, for he had been able to act when she could not.

Even in the fierce rain of Eorlingas arrows that fell thicker than the water from the sky, the enemy had managed to shift their ladders into place, and anchoring hooks crashed against stone ramparts. When Orcs began to pour over the defenses, Truva wielded her sword with relish, feeling far more protected with its leather-bound hilt in hand than she ever felt with flighty bow and arrow. She solidified her position, often needing no more than a swift front kick to send an enemy over the edge to the depths below.

The Eorlingas upon the Deeping Wall were quickly losing their advantage, however. The flow of Orcs up their ladders was insuppressible, and ropes now joined the ladders to allow even more of the enemy to gain the Wall. Truva exerted herself to the fullest, slashing and stabbing viciously at any adversary that appeared before her, yet it seemed as though two sprung up for every one she eliminated.

Truva was hacking through the rope attached to a grappling hook when the prongs of a ladder latched onto the ramparts with a clang beside her. She made short work of the few remaining strands of the rope – much to the dismay of the Orcs that were already ascending below – but as she turned to the new threat she slipped in the pools of blood that had collected along the entire Deeping Wall.

She suddenly found herself face down upon the battlements, and only just managed to scramble to her back as the first Orc fell upon her. She slayed him instantly with a sharp thrust to his exposed underbelly, yet as soon as she discarded his body to the side and rose halfway from the ground she was beset by three more foes, the very weight of their attack preventing her from gaining her feet.

She swept the legs out from beneath one, but was thrust once more upon her back and could do nothing save weave defensively against the assault of the other two. Behind her assailants, Truva could see even greater masses of Uruks bearing down upon the ramparts, and her line of vision was obscured on all sides by their mottled skin and clanking weapons, their numbers countless.

Arms heavy with exhaustion, heart light with resignation, Truva prepared to raise her blade in one final attack, for she was determined not to part this world without taking a greater portion of evil with her. So absorbed was she in her resolution that she did not register the gravelly roar of a familiar voice, nor the graceful, glinting arc of an axe that cut across the night sky.

It was not until Truva found no enemies stood before her that she returned to her senses and perceived a rather self-contented Dwarf leaning upon his weapon.

“See, that’s the advantage of being built so close to the ground!” he said somewhat pompously. “Nigh on impossible to knock a Dwarf off his feet! Twenty-four!”

Truva stared at him in confusion, the haze in her mind exacerbated by exhaustion and the overwhelming stimuli of battle. Before her stood a being from a race she once considered the bane of her existence, the race she believed to have stripped her – or at least many of her ilk – of rights and freedom. There he stood, having not but a few hours before accused her of treason, only to contrarily save her life. The only words Truva could muster were, “Twenty-four?”

“Aye, twenty-four!” he responded. “I’ve noticed you’re a right reaper yourself, but I imagine you’ve got some work to do if you expect to catch up with _that_!” And without another moment’s hesitation he leapt down onto the staircase below, descending into the Deep behind the Wall where a new commotion was arising, his count rising with each dispatched combatant.

Truva set once more upon the unceasing flow of Orcs, still wrapped in a cloud of perplexion, when suddenly the very stone beneath her feet shook, and a blast that was decidedly not a peal of thunder roared. Fire and smoke rose from the base of the Wall, and when Truva peered over the ramparts she could see an undulating bottleneck of Orcs gathering at a singular point, and the Deeping-stream roiling at the culvert. She heard the Dwarf call out, “Ai-oi! The Orcs are behind the Wall!”

“Retreat!” Truva cried as loud as her lungs would allow, alerting the Eorlingas still trapped further along the Deeping Wall. “Retreat to the outer court! Retreat!”

Fighters flew past her as she fended off the swelling waves of the enemy, ensuring that each of her companions made it to safety. Before retreating herself, Truva glanced once more over the Wall to the Deep within, where Orcs now flowed as freely as water. She could see no Eorlingas warriors or Westfold Men, and could only hope they had taken cover in the Caves beyond.

In a single breathless moment, however, she spied Aragorn struggling to ascend the steps of the keep, pursued closely by Orcs. All progress of time hung suspended in the air when exhaustion caused Aragorn to trip upon the steps. Perched as Legolas was at the height of the stairs, he was able to react instantaneously, swinging his bow about and sending a shaft through the neck of the nearest Orc who reached out to attack, yet Truva could see it had been the Elf’s last remaining arrow. She cast about in a panic, her eyes landing upon a massive boulder that had been dislodged by one of the Orcish ladders.

Truva threw her entire weight against the boulder, her muscles bulging and straining as she maneuvered the boulder to a place where the battle had hewn a gap in the parapet. Glancing over the edge, she conducted an instant’s calculation before shoving the boulder over the edge, right atop the pursuing Orcs below, missing Aragorn by millimeters.

When he and Legolas glanced upward to find the source of their saving grace, Truva ducked back behind the parapet, for she was not yet entirely ready to forgive Aragorn and his companions; saving them only complicated her emotions. She instead turned once again to beat back the Uruks that had now wholly overtaken the Wall, and in her retreat she scooped up the armful of arrows she had been collecting ever since the first onslaught, dashing along the battlements toward the barrier of the outer court.

There, Truva encountered Legolas and Aragorn leading a company in blockading the rear gate against the Uruks that stormed the stairs from the culvert. “I noticed you were in need of these,” she said as she dumped the arrows at their feet.

Ignoring their speechless response, Truva rushed down to the lower levels of the Keep where the main gate lay in splinters, yet even so the Eorlingas warriors continued to defend a hastily constructed barricade that fortified it. The plight of the Mark seemed hopeless against the unceasing press of Isengard’s forces; each onslaught they weathered was followed by another, and with every repetition the Eorlingas’ weariness grew and the determination of their enemies strengthened.

The night seemed equally endless, for even as the rain let up the sky became no lighter. Truva strove to bolster the hearts of the fighters yet she could feel their spirit waning. Against the ramparts of the outer court, ladder after ladder was raised from the Deep, repelled again and again by Aragorn and the men he commanded there. Éomer was nowhere to be seen, and upon the battlements of the inner court Éofa struggled alongside Erkenbrand Marshal in defense of the King. The main fortress of Hornburg had not yet been taken, yet it seemed as though it were only a matter of time ere the waves of enemy forces washed over the Eorlingas’ faltering defenses.

Aragorn unexpectedly appeared then upon the arch above the gate, his hands extended to signal parley. Truva wondered at his actions, for compromise or even surrender clearly held no weight, nor demanded any respect from such heartless opponents; indeed, the teeming masses of Orcs mocked him and called for him to bring out the King, but Aragorn dismissed their demands.

“I look out to see the dawn,” he cried out. This only caused the Orcs to deride him more, for they feared not the rising of the sun. “No one knows what the new day shall bring him. Get you gone, ere it turn to your evil.”

These words whipped the Orcs into a frenzy, for they felt assured in their victory, and it seemed to them as though Aragorn’s words were deprived of any meaning, driven merely by desperation. “Get down or we will shoot you from the wall!” they shouted. “This is no parley. You have nothing to say.”

“I have still this to say,” said Aragorn. “No enemy has yet taken the Hornburg. Depart, or not one of you will be spared. Not one will be left to take back tidings to the North. You do not know your peril.”

Aragorn’s words rang false even in her own ears, yet as Truva looked upon the figure who stood in front of her, he suddenly appeared as one who bore a significance far greater than that of any mere Man. An aura shone about him, lending him a strength that could not be articulated – not altogether dissimilar to the way Théodred had risen before Truva’s eyes at the Fords. Aragorn’s bearing was almost kingly, unreachable, and his words struck fear into her heart, though it was not to her they were directed. Any doubt Truva had ever harbored as to the veracity of the lineage Aragorn claimed evaporated in that moment.

Nor was Truva the only one to feel such a way, for the enemy beyond the gates murmured indecisively for quite some time, trapped in doubt. Their final response, however, was a hail of arrows and a blast at the gate that sent the makeshift barricade flying into the air. Truva and those few Eorlingas who remained below sped for the inner court, followed closely by the forces who defended the rear gate, and Aragorn likewise retreated from the archway.

Even as the warriors clambered over debris and up the steps, hotly pursued by a pack of Uruks, the horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded, its low tones rippling the very flagstones of the keep. The forces of Isengard quailed, as for centuries had so many other enemies of the Mark, yet the note throbbed within the hearts of the Eorlingas and instilled in them a renewed sense of hope.

“Helm! Helm!” came the cries of the Riders from the keep. “Helm is arisen and comes back to war! Helm for Théoden King!”

From deep within the fortress, the King rode forth upon his horse, resplendent in his garb of war, white hair flying on the wind that still stirred behind the storm. He was joined by the King’s Riders and other lords of the House of Eorl, and was flanked by Erkenbrand and Éofa. Together, the Riders stormed down from the keep to the lower courts in a rush of hooves, and as they grew closer Truva saw that there, guided by Éofa, was Bron.

With tears of pride and exhaustion in her eyes, Truva leapt upon her horse without a second thought and followed the wave of Riders out onto the causeway, determined to make her last stand worthy of legends, even if there were to be none left to tell them.

“Forth Eorlingas!” cried the King, and with that the dawn sprung into the sky and chased away the night. Behind her, Truva could hear the horns continue to blow. Orcs fled in fear before them as the Riders cut their way through the gorge to Helm’s Dike, though they pulled up short when they came upon that narrow path across, for beyond the deep gulf – filled with the bodies of their enemies – a forest had appeared overnight, unnoticed.

An unsettling gloom hung like a mist throughout the forest, and Truva could have sworn she felt it breathe in one slow, purposeful motion; and as ominous as Fangorn had seemed to her, the eerie mood of this forest was even darker. The Orcs were clearly wary of the forest as well, for they resorted to scrambling about the edges of the gorge to avoid it.

Their luck was not so great, however, for it was as soon as the first Orcs slipped past the forest that a rider, dressed in pure white and mounted upon a steed of similar color, appeared over the ridge of the nearest hill. Backed by the light of the rising sun, he raised his glinting sword into the dawn, and the sound of horns rang out around him. A thousand men also appeared, some mounted, many on foot: the forces of Marshal Elfhelm, scattered by the second battle at the Fords, rallied together once again and led by the Wizard Gandalf.

As Théoden King’s Riders leaped across the breach in the Dike, the fighters Gandalf had gathered descended from the east, and the forces of Isengard knew not where to turn. The wild Dunlending men threw themselves down upon the ground in surrender, while the remaining Orcs fled into the menacing forest, never to emerge again.


	13. Isengard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Tchaikovsky, Serenade for Strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MICksKeZoJU&ab_channel=AltoClef)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Bulgarian stream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zofBinqC2F4&t=9535s&ab_channel=TheSilentWatcher)

From the furthest depths of the keep to the rocky protrusions of the gorge, swarms of Eorlingas poured forth, milling about in a chaotic dance, unsure of how to proceed. Some herded together the Dunlendings who had laid down their arms, others collected the bodies and equipment of their enemies to be burned, while yet others wandered about with neither point nor purpose, content merely to be uplifted and carried away by the hum of activity.

Truva occupied herself with a chain of Eorlingas who were transferring corpses from the Deeping Wall to the grassy field below, ever cautious of the looming, mysterious forest from which emanated a foreboding shadow. Beside her worked Éofa, as well as the Elf and Dwarf, the latter of whom was quite content with his tally in the previous night’s battle.

“Forty-two!” he exclaimed with unbridled pride before turning to his companion. “How is it with you?”

“Alas, you have passed my score by one!” said Legolas.

“What is this?” asked Éofa. “What score?”

“Notches in your spear, my lad!” said Gimli.

“Alas, but I was overly focused on my own survival to consider such things!” said Éofa.

Legolas worked in silence a moment before leaning past Gimli and speaking directly to Truva. “And you, shieldmaiden?”

Truva paused, for however hesitant she was to forgive the Dwarf – whose involvement in her persecution had been limited, and who had, after all, saved her life – she was even less sure of the Elf, who had been terribly determined to characterize her as a spy. All lore Truva had ever heard, however, suggested that despite the poeticism of the Elven word, it was their actions that spoke more articulately, and in so much as addressing her the Elf was attempting reconciliation.

“You best me both,” Truva ultimately admitted. “My number does not surpass thirty-seven, though I did not begin my count until I encountered the Dwarf upon the Deeping Wall.”

“Was it from that point you started?” said Gimli, aghast.

“If that be true, it would be unsurprising if you surpassed both our counts,” said Legolas.

“Still, a number is a number, and as such, I accept my defeat,” said Truva.

“Exactly so, a number is a number!” cried Gimli, “A defeat humbly accepted!”

“Though it would be a great honor to engage in competition once more if ever the opportunity were to arise,” said Truva as she accepted a particularly mangled corpse from the Dwarf.

“And so it is settled,” said Legolas. “May fortune ever smile upon us and deny us occasion for such competition in the future.”

“Yet if the need arises,” Gimli amended, “You both shall fall again into my shadow!”

As the day wore on, sweltering, smoky fires were sent skyward as the Eorlingas’ efforts cleared the grounds; the wounded were borne to the infirmary and all prisoners contained. Come to survey the progress was a small group of the King and his Marshals, accompanied by the Wizard Gandalf, and they muttered in conference not far from where Truva laboured alongside her companions. She eavesdropped surreptitiously as the leaders discussed how best to proceed in the wake of the battle, and what they might do to mitigate the effects that were sure to come.

“To Isengard?” Truva heard Théoden King exclaim at one point.

“Yes,” replied Gandalf, “I shall return to Isengard, and those who will may come with me.”

“But there are not enough men in the Mark,” said Éomer, sweeping his gaze over the recovery effort led by his exhausted men.

“Nevertheless to Isengard I go,” said Gandalf. “Look for me in Edoras, before the waning of the moon!”

“No!” said the King. “I will come with you now, if that is your counsel.”

“How soon and how swiftly will you ride?” the Wizard asked.

“Our men are weary with battle,” said Erkenbrand Marshal.

“Then let all who are to ride with me rest now,” said the Wizard. “We will journey under the shadow of evening. But do not command many men to go with you, Théoden. We go to a parley, not to a fight.”

“Very well,” said Théoden King, who then drew Éomer close for separate counsel.

“But what of the Dunlendings, my lord?” Éomer asked. “Our men are overextended as is. We cannot possibly sacrifice more men, leaving our enemies under the watch of such a weak guard.”

Hearing this, Truva extricated herself from the line of workers. “If I may,” she began, slipping into the pause of conversation between the King and Éomer.

“Yes, what is it, my courageous soldier?” Théoden King asked kindly.

“The Dunlending fighters surrendered peacefully,” said Truva, “And I have heard that the voice of Isengard, the Wizard Saruman, speaks like honey, his words dripping with enticement only to catch the unsuspecting fly.”

“I have also heard it said thus,” said Éomer, “But to what purpose do you mention such things to our King?”

“Long ago was it that our people forced the Dunlendings from their native lands to a less plentiful, harsh existence. Is it not possible that Saruman exploited their resentment, and that the Dunlendings were misled by his deceptive words; for in their determination to provide for their people, the Dunlendings were tricked into unwittingly serving the devices of the Wizard?”

Both Éomer and Théoden King paused a moment to consider Truva’s words. It was not in the character of Eorlingas to feel sympathy toward Dunlendings, as the history between them fraught with disagreement and violence, and great vengeance had been exacted on both sides, yet Truva’s perceptive words invited the Marshal and King to view the longstanding conflict in a new light.

“It is true that their motivation could possibly have been reasons manipulated by Saruman, yet ultimately they took up arms against us and slew our kind,” said Théoden King.

“And we likewise slew their kind,” Truva reasoned. “I do not mean to suggest you forgive them wholly, only that they be treated with some modicum of understanding.”

A silence fell between the three as the King thought deeply before speaking again. “I acknowledge the points you have made. What, then, would you counsel me do with the Dunlending prisoners?”

“First, I would make our sympathies apparent,” Truva advised, for a quick glance at the quivering Dunlendings hinted that a single kind word might have a significantly larger impact than the King believed. “Then, recruit their help in the rebuilding of Hornburg; for I wonder whether they might appreciate the chance to make recompense, rather than await their fate in confinement.”

Théoden King’s expression appeared dubious ere the consternation between his brows cleared. “I know not whether your assumptions be right, yet it is the way of the Mark to afford our enemies forgiveness. I do not suppose it is unimaginable that these men were bewitched by the misleading word of Saruman, and having fallen prey to the Wizard myself, it would be unjust of me to refuse them an opportunity to redeem themselves.

“Let these Dunlending men take the place of those Eorlingas accompanying myself and Gandalf to Isengard,” said the King to Erkenbrand, who continued to linger nearby, and the Marshal lept at once to organize his captains in unfettering the astonished Dunlending men as Théoden continued, “Guide them in the rectification of the destruction they have wrought, and we shall see whether they are worthy of mercy.”

Hearing this declaration, the men of Dunland stood agape; they had been certain their fate at the hands of the Eorlingas would be death, for Saruman had told it so. They had not anticipated that the Wizard’s words would be so full of falsehoods or that the horselords would be forgiving people, cognizant of their own wrongdoing against those they had forced to take up residence in the Dunlands. It was thus with vigor that the freed prisoners took up the task at hand, availing the Riders to a touch of well-earned rest.

“It was quite brazen, the way in which you spoke to Théoden King,” remarked Éofa as they were relieved of their duties, several of the Dunlending men taking broken debris directly from their hands.

“I know not what came over me,” replied Truva.

“It is good to see you speak with such passion – last night, as well, though the circumstances were not wholly auspicious,” said Éofa, and though the memory of that confrontation caused Truva’s stomach to plummet, she appreciated her friend’s support nevertheless.

Together the duo stumbled over to Éomer, who still stood upon the field although the other leaders had already departed, and the three Eorlingas supported each other as they made their way back to the fortress of Hornburg, followed at some distance by Legolas and Gimli. The conflict had been a long and weary one, absent of any respite, and the Eorlingas warriors were drunk on exhaustion.

“I am so glad you are alive, my captain, my Marshal,” said Truva, laying upon Éomer’s back a few feeble pats. It was a surprisingly affectionate gesture for her, though perhaps she was finally coming to understand why the Eorlingas so readily expressed their sentiments through touch; words were at times entirely insufficient, especially for one so reserved as she.

“Likewise,” said Eomer, responding by giving Truva’s shoulders an equally feeble squeeze.

“I thought we had lost you when the Wall was breached,” she said.

“I thought each one of us had been lost,” remarked Éofa in an unusual show of melancholic honesty, though it relieved him to see a wan smile stretch at the corner of his companions’ mouths.

“No,” said Éomer, “I found myself in the caves, alongside the Dwarf and a great many others, all of whom fought bravely. I do believe the Dwarf rather enjoyed it; peculiar individual, that one.”

As they walked, the Marshal looked with pride upon his peculiar charge. He suspected that Truva, more so than any other Eorlingas, had been the one to exert herself beyond all measure that night – beyond even the most decorated of leaders – for though she did not say so, he was certain she felt the need to prove false the claims that had been made against her.

When the trio reached the causeway and picked their way through the debris that was still littered about the main gate, Truva eyed the Deeping-stream longingly. She wished for nothing more than a refreshing wash in its once chilly, crystalline waters, but the fallout of the battle had left the stream churning unappealingly upon its muddy banks, streaked with the blood of friend and foe alike.

Truva was suddenly reminded of the picnic she had shared with Théodred and the others, and how pure the waters of the Snowbourn had been that spring. The memory dug painfully into her heart, causing her breath to come short and sharp. She turned quickly from the stream.

As the companions approached the keep, they were greeted by a detail of guards, two of whom stepped forward. “We are ordered by the King to provide individual accommodations for those who will accompany him to Isengard,” spoke the foremost guard before falling back into formation with his companion. They marched off smartly, checking but once to see whether Truva, Éomer, and Éofa followed.

The guards led them not in the direction of the lower barracks, but instead toward the great Hall and infirmary. From behind the Hall ascended a narrow staircase which switchbacked up the face of the Thrihyrne before cutting into the rock itself. Up, up beyond the heights of the Burg they were led, turning at last into an interior passageway, off of which jutted a series of secluded accommodations.

Éomer was shown first to his rooms, then Éofa, and after Truva bid them an exhausted farewell, she too was shown to her own just a short distance down the hall. As soon as she pushed the woven mat of reeds that marked the entrance aside, the guards saluted and disappeared without a word further. It was in the very moment they turned the corner that Legolas and Gimli appeared, guided by an additional pair of guards, and Truva rushed to enter the room so that she might avoid speaking with them.

When the mat fell into place behind her, Truva was plunged into darkness. Unfamiliar with the layout of Hornburg, she felt her way forward unseeing, though once her eyes had adjusted she found herself in a small antechamber, discernible by a soft wash of light that emanated from the curtain of a second entryway. Truva ducked past its heavy linen fabric only to discover surprisingly cozy, inviting lodgings beyond. There was no denying her housing in Edoras was comfortable, yet somehow the enveloping rock of Thrihyrne lent an exceptional sense of security.

There was an opening on the northwest side of the room that overlooked the entirety of the Hornburg and its encompassing Deep far below, allowing Truva to observe all movement within the Coomb. Set before the opening was a table, spread with food the quality of which Truva had only ever witnessed at feasts. Cheese and meat and mushrooms lay on platters, accompanied by bread, the freshness of which Truva could determine by the steam that still wafted from it. Milk also sat in a pitcher, collecting condensation.

Truva wondered at this delectable display, for she had been led to believe that supplies in the Hornburg were considerably depleted, yet in turning to look behind her she spied something far more captivating than anything edible: a bath. Deep within a hollow of the stone wall had been carved a low basin, and it sat filled to the brim with aromatic water which sent steam wafting throughout the entire room. From her lessons on herbs with the King’s chef, Truva recognized the calming scent of lavender.

She hesitated for a moment, reluctant to let her guard down after such a harrowing night, then reassured herself as best as possible with a glance out the window upon the ordered chaos in the Coomb below. Moving away from the window, Truva gradually extricated herself from her garb, starting with her outer armour before graduating to her inner mail, layer upon layer of all that seemed designed to come between her and the relaxing bath.

It was with unparalleled relief which she sunk into the nearly scalding water, and as the sun beamed in through the opening, a tenuous calm crept over Truva. She sat fully immersed and unmoving for quite some time, then began to wash the blood from her body, examining every inch of her skin to ensure that the blood was not hers.

When at last the knots of her muscles had been undone by the warmth of the water, Truva wrapped herself in a sheet and collapsed upon the bed set against the far wall, incognizant of any troubles that lay beyond the door of her temporary chamber.

It felt as though mere seconds had passed when Truva opened her eyes again, yet the position of the sun in the sky indicated that several hours had gone by and the time was now midafternoon. There was no visible activity in the Deep below, but even so she knew it would not be long before the company would depart for Isengard.

Casting her eyes about the apartment, Truva noticed that what few belongings she brought with her from Edoras had been placed right inside the doorway as she was sleeping, along with several sets of freshly laundered clothes. She slipped into a pair of trousers and a tunic, crammed the rest of her things into her pack, took one last long, wistful look about the tiny room that had served as a haven – if only for but a fleeting moment – then ducked out into the corridor and back down the numerous stairs to the main keep and its stables.

A sense of solace swept through Truva’s heart when she set eyes upon Bron, who was lounging contentedly in a stall. A box of apples in the corner caught Truva’s eye, and while she was not entirely certain why such delicacies were to be found in a fortress that had so recently been under siege, she was neither too keen on questioning such fortuitousness.

She selected the most appetizing fruit and offered it to Bron, who accepted the treat greedily. The stable hands clearly having groomed and cared for him since the battle, Truva merely leaned against his stolid shoulder and breathed in his earthy scent, allowing his calm spirit to wash over her and settle peace into her heart.

“Should I run into you in the stables any more frequently, I might start to suspect you prefer horses to your own kind,” said a voice that instantly shattered all sense of tranquility. Truva swung her head beneath Bron’s neck only to see Aragorn standing in the neighboring stall, loading a pack onto Hasufel.

“The same might be said of you,” said Truva, her tone unreadable, for though they had seemed to come to some kind of truce, it was still difficult to discern the dynamic that lay between them.

“There are worse things in life,” he said before leading his borrowed horse to the stable entrance. “We shall ride soon; I suggest you prepare quickly.”

When his back turned, Truva mimicked the Ranger’s words to herself mockingly, then followed him out of the stables and down through the courts to the main gate. In the field just beyond, Théoden King was already deep in discussion with Éofa and several other Eorlingas captains. Next to arrive was Éomer, followed closely by Legolas and Gimli, and their ranks had swollen to nearly a score of Riders ere Gandalf emerged at long last from the gates of Hornburg.

The sun was just beginning to sink toward the western mountains when the company set out toward Isengard. They gave little notice of their departure as to evade the attention of those who would make fanfare, for already it was late in the day, and the unspoken hope was that there would be rejoicing enough when the Riders returned in more jubilant times.

The great swath of ominous forest still lay in their path, however. Even as the final rays of sun burst across the sky the trees lurked like night, with branches that evoked the image of fingers threatening to ensnare the unwary, accompanied by the soft moan of boughs shifting in the slight wind. But when Gandalf entered the wood confidently, the others followed, and not even the stifling heat of the tunnel beyond could turn them from their path; indeed, Truva heard the Elf exclaiming in wonder at the mystery that surrounded them.

When the company emerged from the far side of the dusky forest, night had well and truly fallen across the land. They did not rest, however, and just beyond the Coomb they turned north upon the Great Road and continued on toward the River Isen, traveling for some hours before they finally came within sight of the Fords.

Truva’s stomach constricted, for until that very moment she had not fully understood how excruciating it would be to revisit the place where she had lost so many, and especially one so dear. The memories of that night – scarcely a week gone – rushed back to her, and the more she dwelled upon such images the more intense they grew, until she fell into them completely. Truva saw before her the Uruks’ dappled skin flitting in the dark, lurking shapes that darted across the riverbanks, glinting axes raised; she gasped for breath, struggling to extricate herself from the terrors of that night—

She felt Éomer’s tight grasp about her forearm then, and shaking the images clear from her mind Truva found herself back in the present, Bron standing upon the pebbled banks of the Fords. Éomer peered into her face with an expression of deep concern.

“It happens to most all of us,” he said by way of reassurance, when he saw that she had recovered somewhat.

Truva looked out across the Isen and saw the eyot where Théodred was buried. Additional monuments had been erected in honor of those Eorlingas who had fallen in the first battle, as well as a second that had transpired a mere two nights prior. She listened numbly as Gandalf relayed how more Eorlingas had been scattered than slain in the second assault, and yet the burial mounds and their crown of spears loomed up before her, only to peer down from a terrible height; while her brethren had endured the assault of Saruman, she had been safe in Edoras, _feasting_.

At great last, the company waded through the shallow water of the Fords and made camp alongside the road some leagues beyond. The sun of the following morning arose to cast a watery dawn, revealing in its faint light weedy scrubland that spread over the foothills of the Misty Mountains, dotted with the stumps of trees that had at one time formed a magnificent forest. Far off to the north, a column of smoke – or steam, perhaps – was visible as it roiled skyward.

The company made their way along the road in the direction of this signal, wary of the slightest sound though they encountered nothing. No more than an hour had they traveled ere a soft trickle could be heard, gradually increasing in volume as a tiny spring worked its way along the parched rocks of the riverbed beside them. Soon, the entire basin was awash with water that cascaded down from the north, surpassing the steep banks and forcing the Riders up off the road. In a matter of moments, the Isen was restored to an even greater level of ferocity than Truva had witnessed when she first journeyed into the lands of the Mark.

Gazing in wonder upon this inexplicable event, the company rode just a little further before they passed a spiny ridge of the Misty Mountains and the entirety of the Wizard’s Vale sprawled out ahead of them; and from a slight rise, the Riders could see that beyond the shifting haze their path led to a shallow dip in the land. There, encircled by a giant ring of granite wall – impenetrable save for a single entrance that looked upon the road – the low grounds stretched clear across to the foothills of the mountains that lay still several leagues off. From the lowest point jutted an enormous, sleek tower that frowned intimidatingly upon the company.

“Orthanc,” explained Éomer, pulling up beside Truva and craning his neck to peer upward toward the top of the jet black obelisk. “Long has it been home to Saruman the Wizard, who we Eorlingas once estimated might be friend at best and pest at worst – now turned wholly foe.”

As the Riders approached closer, they could see the grounds about the tower were entirely abandoned, studded only by giant stones and toppled masonry protruding from a shallow pool of water, the murky depths of which filled the entire basin and settled into holes along the road; an apparent remnant of the flood they had witnessed that morning.

Truva gripped the hilt of her sword when the company came upon the wall, for it was so thick that each and every Rider could easily fit within the tunnel-like gate that passed through, though such great destruction had been wrought upon it that the roof had caved in and the mighty gates lay hanging upon their hinges. She had seen many workings of this wizard Saruman, however, and had come to suspect that the most perilous moment was when danger was seemingly passed.

It was thus with trepidation that she rode directly behind the King and Éomer, yet upon emerging from the far side of the gate, all Riders pulled their horses up short when they witnessed what lay beyond: utter ruin, as though a herd of behemoth trolls had been riled then sent on a rampage throughout the entire area, destroying even that which seemed indestructible, laying waste to all save the tower.

“Welcome, my lords and lady, to Isengard!”

Truva started when she heard a voice call out from what she had taken to be nothing more than a pile of debris directly beside the gate. The sound seemed to be coming from the rubble itself until Truva peered closer and saw two tiny, child-like figures tucked amongst the tumble of wood beams, one apparently asleep and the other standing, having greeted them.

All thought of correcting her form of address vanished from Truva’s mind, and her eyes flew wide when she realized what she was witnessing. “Halflings!” she whispered to herself in amazement as the standing figure continued:

“We are the doorwardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc is my name; and my companion, who, alas! is overcome with weariness, is Peregrin, son of Paladin, of the House of Took.” Here, the Halfling comically nudged his sleeping friend – none too gently – with his foot. About them were scattered bowls and platters and scraps of all manner of delectable foods, the sight of which caused Truva’s stomach to protest. She regretted having neglected the food back in Hornburg, though her hunger was far surpassed by her fascination, and the undeniable proof that Halflings were no mere mythology.

“Grand to see you, Master Wizard; long has it been since your recent visit!” said the Hobbit called Peregrin.

“And was it Saruman that ordered you to guard his damaged doors, and watch for the arrival of guests, when your attention could be spared from plate and bottle?” said Gandalf, who was clearly unsurprised by the presence of these beings.

“No, good sir, the matter escaped him,” the Halfling called Meriadoc replied jocularly. “Our orders came from Treebeard, who has taken over management of Isengard.”

Truva was not spared a moment to contemplate what a Treebeard might be before Gimli burst out, “And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me? You rascals, a fine hunt you have led us! And here we find you feasting and idling – and smoking! Smoking!”

“You speak for me, Gimli!” the Elf chimed in, “Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine.” And despite the turmoil that surrounded the relationship between Truva and the three travelers, she felt truly relieved to learn that the words of Gandalf had been true, and that these must certainly be the Halflings they had been searching for all along.

“Wine we have for our good friend Legolas, and great fare for Gimli, too, for well we know the habits of our friends,” said Meriadoc. “Not least of all Strider, who appears kingly before us now, though it was not so terribly long ago that he lounged upon a chair in the Prancing Pony, wrapped mysteriously in a cloak and smoking his pipe; the finest weed we have set aside for him.”

“Where is Treebeard, Merry?” asked the Wizard with a hint of a smile upon his lips. Truva wondered at these Halflings who knew the name Strider, though it had been offered but once to the Eorlingas; yet even more mystifying was their description of the Ranger, which was entirely incongruous with all Truva knew of him.

“Away on the north side, I believe,” the Halfling replied. “Most of the other Ents are with him, still busy at their work – over there.” The eyes of the company followed his vague gesticulation, and they saw far off in the distance a streaming waterfall that fed into the lake at their feet. The ruins of an enormous dam lay scattered at its edges, upon which was a sight Truva could not quite make sense of.

She shifted toward Éomer without taking her eyes off the vision and asked quietly, “Are those trees… _moving_?”

“I believe so,” Éomer whispered back, equally bewildered.

“Well, Théoden,” said Gandalf, “Will you ride with me to find Treebeard? We must go round about, but it is not far.”

“Very well,” said Théoden. “Lead on, my friend.”

Absent the trio, who remained behind to greet their long-lost companions, the company slowly circled eastward around the great pillar of Orthanc, wary of loose flagstones and debris that lay hidden beneath the water at their horses’ feet. When the Riders arrived at the foot of the dam, giant trees could be seen shifting through the rubble. The trees were of all kinds: humongous oaks with deeply scarred bark and scraggly arms, proud beech trees with their crown of foliage, tiny crabapples, and birches with distinct white peeling bark; each uniquely individual, and seeing them brought back to Truva a brief passing comment Gríma had made in their lessons long ago, causing a flash of recognition.

“Treebeard!” Gandalf called in greeting to the foremost tree, who turned and approached the Riders.

“Gandalf!” said the tree in a slow, deep voice that matched his ancient appearance. His utterance was accompanied by a strange, low hoom-hum of hemming and hawing. “So you have returned.”

“Yes, and I see you have been at least as busy as I,” the Wizard said, observing the destruction of the dam and the newly-formed lake.

“I do not suppose Ents may ever match a Wizard in productivity, but nor have we been idle.”

It had taken hearing but one single word from the tree to confirm Truva’s suspicions, and to send her mind reeling; for indisputably confirming the existence of both Halflings and Ents within a matter of mere minutes was quite incomprehensible to her. She stood watching in awe as Treebeard and Gandalf came together in conversation.

“Come, come, I suspect you are weary,” the immense tree spoke, beckoning the Riders to the grassy sides of a hill above the floodwaters. “I have asked the Hobbits to gather what food fit for Men might be found in the wreckage.”

The company dismounted and set their horses upon the fresh greenery, then settled themselves upon the hillside. A handful of Ents distributed salted pork, as well as slightly stale bread with honey and butter amongst the Riders, who accepted the fare gratefully. They also passed around great tankards to drink from, and though the contents of the tankards were nothing more than water, Truva found that when it came her turn to drink, the rejuvenation that washed through her body was entirely inexplicable.

“Your hospitality, albeit different from that of Men, can never be said to be lacking,” said Gandalf to Treebeard as the Riders worked to sate their hunger and thirst, the greedy flurry of fingers gradually abating to a more lackadaisical rummaging through crumbs, “But more urgent matters are pressing; what can you tell me of Saruman?”

“In his tower where our feisty Quickbeam chased him, as when you came last.”

“No change since then?”

“Ah! There was the arrival of a most curious creature, full of lies. Said he was a friend and counsellor of the King, and had been sent with important messages from Théoden to Saruman.”

“Gríma!” Théoden King cried, his first word since they came into the company of the Ents.

“Allow me to introduce said King himself, King Théoden of the Horselords,” said Gandalf.

“Long have you lived upon the borders of my forest and left us to live peaceably,” said Treebeard to the King. “And though strange is the language of horses to us, and infrequently do they wander among our woods, it is always lovingly that they speak of their kind treatment by your people.”

“How is it that you speak to our horses?” questioned Théoden.

“Not as easily as we might converse with the natural inhabitants of our woods, of course, but still enough that we can make sense of their ninnying when the mood strikes us. Do you not also speak to them, in your own way?”

“I suppose we do – in our own way,” said Théoden King thoughtfully.

“All’s very well and good,” Gandalf cut in, “But we have not the time to be sidetracked. What became of Gríma?”

“I knew him immediately for the man you spoke of the night before. He whined and wheedled, but given the choice between the mastery of Saruman and the vengeance of his King, he chose the former.”

“That is of little surprise,” mused Gandalf. “Well, I believe it is time I must pay Saruman and his servant a farewell visit. Dangerous, and probably useless; but it must be done. If our talks are fruitless – as I suspect they will be – I ask only that you continue your watch upon the tower and its inhabitants.”

“Saruman shall not set foot beyond the rock, without my leave. Ents will see to that,” promised Treebeard.

The company began to regroup at this exchange between Wizard and Tree. they stood and brushed crumbs of bread from their laps and whistled for their horses, who came trotting back greatly refreshed. Truva gave Bron an affectionate rub of the nose before mounting up and following the others as they made their way back toward the south side of Isengard.

Along their way, they met the small party that had remained behind: Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and the two Halflings, who were smoking quite contentedly and seemed entirely pleased with themselves.

“Where to now?” inquired the Halfling who called himself Meriadoc.

“To give a final greeting to the occupants of Orthanc, in the unlikely hopes that reason might win out,” said Gandalf. “Those of you who wish may come with me – but beware!”

“What’s the danger?” asked the other Halfling Peregrin. “Will he shoot at us, and pour fire out of the windows; or can he put a spell on us from a distance?”

“The last is most likely, if you ride to his door with a light heart. Beware his voice!”

The Eorlingas shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, recalling the strange mood that had overtaken their King for so long. It was undeniable that some sorcery had been the cause of it all, yet surely the mere sound of a voice was not sufficient to topple an entire kingdom?

Twenty-some sets of eyes observed warily as the Wizard Gandalf ascended the vast steps that lead to the only entrance of Orthanc, upon the eastern side of the tower. He hammered his staff against the gate and called out, “Saruman, Saruman, come forth!”

But it was not Saruman who answered. “Who is it? What do you wish?” responded the unmistakable voice of Gríma. The entire gathering inhaled sharply at the sound, and Théoden King mumbled threateningly under his breath.

“Go and fetch Saruman,” commanded Gandalf, “Since you have become his footman!”

The tower remained silent for a suspenseful moment, then a voice suddenly emanated as if from the stone itself. “Well? Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace at all by night or day?”

Upon hearing the musical tones of this voice, dueling factions within Truva’s mind struggled for dominance. While the exact spoken words failed to register, she felt guilt wash over her, as though this man’s grievances were a direct result of her own misguided actions. He was pitiable, his cause moving! A desire to lend succor to this gentle, wronged Wizard sparked within her; then a brief trill of objection surged, and Truva shook her head as if trying to dislodge water from her ear.

The entrancing voice spoke again. “Come now! Gandalf I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Théoden Lord of the Mark of Rohan! Why have you not come before, and as a friend?”

At these words, Truva believed with all sincerity that Saruman harbored nothing save good intentions toward the plight of the Eorlingas. With a glance to her leader, she saw that Théoden was likewise beginning to perceive Saruman as a potential ally once more.

“Much have I desired to see you, mightiest king of western lands,” continued the Wizard, “To save you from the unwise and evil counsels that beset you! Is it yet too late? What have you to say, Théoden King? Will you have peace with me, and all the aid that my knowledge, founded in long years, can bring?”

The King did not answer, yet Truva could see him wavering, torn between the rapidly fading memory of recent events and the words now that his mind held to be true. It was then that Éomer spoke.

“Lord, hear me!” he beseeched. “Now we feel the peril that we were warned of. What aid can he give you? All he desires is to escape from his plight. But will you parley with this dealer in treachery and murder? Remember Théodred at the Fords!”

Théodred! The name struck Truva as surely as an arrow into her flesh and roused her from her delirium. His death was the working of Saruman and his ambitions alone, and to compromise in any way with this duplicitous Wizard would be a betrayal to his memory. Even so, the tendrils of Saruman’s spell lingered still in her mind, and when she opened her mouth to speak in support of the Marshal, she found herself unable to summon any sound.

“Meddle not in policies you do not understand, Éomer son of Éomund!” snapped Saruman. “The power of Orthanc cannot be lightly thrown aside. You have won a battle but not a war – and that with help on which you cannot count again.

“But am I to be called a murderer, because valiant men have fallen in battle? If I am a murderer on that account, then all the House of Eorl is stained with murder, for they have fought many wars, and assailed many who defied them. Yet with some they have afterwards made peace. I say, Théoden King: shall we have peace and friendship, you and I?”

The company hung in anticipation upon the reply of the King, most unable to shake the mesmerizing voice of Saruman. Truva longed to scream her dissent, yet her voice still caught in her throat; and so she watched with dread as her King fumbled for his words.

“We will have peace,” Théoden King said at last. Truva hung her head, devastated by his lack of discernment. She snapped to attention, however, when the King continued, “We will have peace, when you and all your works have perished. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men’s hearts.”

In an instant, the spell was wholly broken and the Eorlingas looked upon their King in awe, disconcerted by how easily they had been deceived by Saruman despite the warnings given.

“I know not why I have had the patience to speak to you,” retorted the Wizard, “For I need you not, nor your little band of gallopers, as swift to fly as to advance, Théoden Horsemaster. Go back to your huts!”

Then, swift as the fickle wind on a summer day, Saruman shifted his attention to the next target. “But you, Gandalf! For you at least I am grieved. How comes it that you can endure such company? For you are proud, Gandalf – and not without reason, having a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel? Let us understand one another, and dismiss from thought these lesser folk! Will you not consult with me? Will you not come up?”

Tension gripped the entire company; even through cracks in the enchantment, the Wizard’s invitation sounded enticing. It was undeniable that a union between these two powerful figures would result in the destruction of all they had been fighting for.

“Saruman, Saruman,” Gandalf laughed, and at the tone of his voice the riders exhaled as one a sigh of relief. “Nay, I do not think I will come up. Isengard has proved less strong than your hope and fancy made it. Think well, Saruman! Will you not come down? You can leave Orthanc free – if you choose.”

“That sounds well, very much in the manner of Gandalf the Grey: so condescending, and so very kind. Do not be a fool. If you wish to treat with me, while you have a chance, go away, and come back when you are sober! Good day!”

“Come back, Saruman!” commanded Gandalf, and to the great astonishment of all gathered, the Wizard did so. “I did not give you leave to go. Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White who has returned from death. You have no colour now, and I cast you from the order and from the Council. Saruman, your staff is broken.”

And with those words the staff in Saruman’s hand was shattered, yet even in the same moment, a giant orb fell from a window high above and smashed upon the stair beside Gandalf.

“The murderous rogue!” Éomer cried, shaking his spear threateningly as the figure of Gríma peered out from the source of the object.

“The aim was poor, maybe, because he could not make up his mind which he hated more, Gandalf or Saruman,” commented Aragorn, his words sparking a thought in Truva’s mind.

“That may be so,” said Gandalf, reaching for the orb which Truva immediately recognized as the palantír Théoden had requested she gaze into so many years ago. “Small comfort will those two have in their companionship: they will gnaw one another with words.”

“But the punishment is just,” interjected Théoden. “If Wormtongue ever comes out of Orthanc alive, it will be more than he deserves.”

“Is that truly so?” Truva spoke abruptly, the spark in her mind igniting into an untamed wildfire. “Did you not all feel its sway just now – the way in which the Wizard’s words work into your mind and corrupt your very sense of self? Begging your pardon, my Lord, but have we not watched it seep into our very own King’s heart and affect his governance? In much the same way, the Dunlending men had long presented a danger to our way of life, yet it was not until the honeyed tongue of Saruman flicked into their consciousness that they waged outright war against us.

“And yet will you not afford the same compassion toward Gríma? Do you not recall his countenance before you sent him upon his task to Isengard? His entire devotion was reserved for you, my Lord, and for our people! He was kind, and loving, and soft-spoken; more than a match for your very own sister-daughter, had you ever deigned to view him as anything more than a servant and advisor.”

“What is it you are suggesting?” asked the King.

“Pardon him,” said Truva. “Even if you do not forgive him, accept him back into our midst. It is far better that he makes reparations for his wrongdoing under our watchful gaze, than remain available to do the bidding of this cunning and unscrupulous Wizard.”

“He nearly killed Gandalf with the palantír!” cried Éomer.

“Perhaps,” acknowledged Truva, “Or perhaps, in a fit of conscience, he attempted to strip Saruman of the one object that amplified his power.”

Truva could see the King’s thoughts turn inward as he considered her proposition, leaving Truva feeling uncomfortably exposed. It was one thing to ask pardon for the Dunlending men – it was not the Eorlingas way to annihilate their enemies upon victory, and so her request had been in keeping with the spirit of Eorl – yet to ask pardon for one who had so traitorously betrayed the King himself was perhaps asking too much.

“If I may,” spoke Aragorn from behind the King. Truva promptly spun upon him.

“Was it not enough to have thrown suspicion upon me? Must you condemn this man also, as wrong as his actions were?” she demanded. “Or perhaps you mistrust me still, and take my words as an ill-conceived attempt to reunite with my fellow conspirator?”

“On the contrary,” Aragorn said gently, “I agree with your assertion; evil has guided too many actions of late, and if it lies within our ability to alter its course, it is our duty to do so. I similarly believe this man was misled by the power of Saruman, and is deserving our forgiveness.”

Truva stared at Aragorn, surprise written clearly upon her face. Théoden peered intently at the Ranger for a few moments before turning to Gandalf, who simply raised a bushy eyebrow slightly. After a long silence, the King finally spoke.

“I agree that it would be hypocritical of me not to accept the faults in a servant that I myself have displayed,” he said, then called out in the direction of Orthanc, “Gríma! If at all you retain any deference to your King, I beg of you to abandon this false serpent and come with us now.”

Gandalf, however, took another tack. “Saruman, hear my words! Your choice is not that of your servant; allow Gríma to go free if he so wills.”

Truva’s heart palpitated in the silence that followed, fearful that her calculations had been incorrect. Perhaps it truly was of his own volition that Gríma had allied himself with Saruman, tempted by the worldly rewards promised him. It pained Truva to envision the man she had once respected as one driven by such base pleasures, though she had learned long ago that the inner workings of the minds of Men escaped her.

A few moments elapsed, and it was with hollow disappointment that Truva watched Théoden King turn Snowmane about and make his way southward toward the entrance of Isengard. She felt as though she were witnessing the death of yet another companion; for while her affection for Théodred ran far deeper, hit had been in the height of loyalty to his people that he had been taken from her. To have so severely misjudged the character of another dear friend was an entirely different wound that would scar in its own way.

As she turned to follow her King and company, however, a flicker of movement caught Truva's eye. The massive gates of Orthanc cracked open, and from the crevasse emerged a dark figure. Though a pale hand shot out after it, snatching at the trailing cloak, it missed and retracted quickly as the gates snapped shut once more.

“My lord!” cried Truva. All Riders swung about to see the pitiful form of Gríma tumbling down the steps of the tower, only to stagger through the stagnant puddles that remained after the flood.

“My lord, my King!” called Gríma. “As Truva has said, you need not forgive me, but please take me with you! I have enacted great wrong against our people, yet it originated in the mind of Saruman and was actualized against my better judgement. In the moment, I knew not what came over me, yet now I see it was the malicious intent of one more powerful than I by which my misdeeds were conducted. Even so, I wish not to make excuses; please allow me to make reparations as are due.” 

The King heard his former advisor’s pleas and sighed deeply. “There was a time I trusted you with that which I did not trust my own self with, yet those days are gone. You bore a shadow into the halls of Edoras, and brought about events which can never be redressed. Nevertheless, it is through my own actions that you encountered this Wizard in the first place, and so the blame also lies in part with me. Yet I must insist that you are bound for the time being, as I cannot yet bring myself to fully trust you.”

“Your highness is just and prudent. I will submit to whatever conditions you demand, and will henceforth seek only to prove that my true loyalty lies with the Mark. I ask not that you believe me upon my word, so that I may ever be forced to show my sincerity through action.”

At a subtle gesture from Théoden King, Éofa dismounted and pulled a short length of rope from his saddlebag. He deftly bound the hands of Gríma and aided him in mounting his horse before climbing up rather peevishly behind the disgraced advisor and tying the remnant of the new captive’s bonds about his waist.

“It is my hope that a certain Wizard takes his servant’s spirit to heart and reconsiders his own position,” said Gandalf rather loudly and pointedly before the entire company rode out and passed through the demolished archway to the road beyond.

They took an easy pace as the sun slowly sunk behind the Misty Mountains. Even as darkness crept down the mountainsides they continued on, accompanied by the rejuvenated voice of the River Isen, until at last they turned slightly upland and made camp just a few hours before midnight upon the sloping hills of Dol Baran at the southernmost point of the mountain range. Truva elected to take the unfavored late-night, early-morning watch, yet no sooner had she picketed Bron and rolled out her blankets for a brief rest than Éofa summoned her for council.

Théoden King sat with the Wizard Gandalf before a bonfire at the foot of a giant hawthorn, the flames throwing flickering shadows upon their faces, worn with grave concern. Aragorn and Éomer stood nearby, and as Truva and Éofa approached, Gimli and Legolas appeared also from the darkness.

“Now, have we all gathered?” asked Gandalf. “Very well, let us begin. It is apparent from recent events that some link between Isengard and Mordor exists, the true nature of which has yet to be determined. The eye of Barad-dûr will be looking impatiently towards the Wizard’s Vale, I think; and towards Rohan.”

“The less it sees the better,” said Théoden King.

“From now on, no more than two or three are to go openly over the land, by day or night, when it can be avoided,” added Gandalf.

“We must set to action,” said the King. “Éomer, take one or two of your trusted men and make for Edoras. Gather all those who remain within the city and send word to the furthest reaches of our lands; there is no use protecting a home if there are none to return to it. Éofa, take a company to Dunharrow and warn my sister-daughter Éowyn of our situation.”

“I myself will take one of the Hobbits, the lightest and most convincing of companions, to Minas Tirith,” said Gandalf. “There will I attempt to warn the Steward of the imminent threat that surely comes from the East.”

“The rest of us shall return to Hornburg and gather our troops there, converging ultimately upon Dunharrow,” said the King. As they spoke, Truva wondered which faction she would be asked to accompany, secretly hoping that she might follow Éofa as to travel less and see Éowyn and the others all the sooner.

“Let us all get some rest,” said Gandalf. “The most imminent danger may have passed for now, but there is no knowing what morning light is to reveal. Aragorn, if I might have a word.”

The Ranger lingered behind with the King and Wizard as the rest stood to take their leave. Truva departed to her watch, for even though it was still early she knew there was no longer any hope of rest. After relieving the thankful watchman, she spent the hours peering deep into the darkness, using her ears to assist her eyes in confirming that nothing save natural wild creatures crept near.

SThough it had been a mere two hours, it felt as if the entire night had transpired when Éofa relieved her at long last. As Truva made her way back to the main camp, she passed just beyond the light of the fading embers beneath the hawthorn, and saw that Aragorn and Gandalf continued to bend their heads together in quiet discussion. She furtively moved closer in an attempt to discern what topic their whispers might be regarding.

“—but a Man,” Aragorn was saying. “What reason have they to listen to me?”

“And I am but a meddling Wizard,” said Gandalf. “You are as likely as I to wield any influence there—” He stopped talking suddenly when he sensed Truva’s presence. “I suppose you have finished your watch, then?”

Truva stepped into the faint red glow of the dying fire. “Yes. I am sorry for eavesdropping, only—” she broke off when she realized there was no plausible excuse for listening in on their conversation.

“It is all very well,” said the Wizard. “I have been meaning to speak with you as it is. Come, sit,” he said, and while the words themselves sounded like an invitation, it felt more like a command. Truva sat.

For a few moments Gandalf said nothing, merely looked long and hard into Truva’s eyes, almost as though that commanding voice was examining her very soul. “I understand you come from truly unique origins.”

“I suppose that might be said to be true,” said Truva, unsure of the Wizard’s purpose. She glanced at Aragorn, yet he would not meet her gaze.

“I have been led to believe the Hidlands are populated by fighters, unfairly enslaved. If you had to estimate, how many would you suppose to be currently held in those Lands?”

“Hundreds, perhaps?” Truva estimated, caught off guard.

“Take her with you when you go north, Aragorn,” ordered Gandalf. “See how many friends will answer our call.”

“North?” Truva said, shocked to find herself having questioned the Wizard. “All the forces of the Mark converge now upon Dunharrow, looking to the west – yet you would send us north? Any destination that way is several weeks’ ride; is our priority not haste?”

“Indeed, time is pressing,” said Gandalf, seeming conversely rather pleased at her questions, “Yet there is one thing the events at Hornburg have demonstrated to Sauron: the old alliances of Men are weak. Saruman’s influence caused Théoden to drive many from him – an effect which you yourself experienced. Gondor did not come to Rohan’s aid in all that time, nor did Rohan ever seek to summon it.

“This I believe has bought us some time. Sauron does not expect the old alliances to be reforged, and he would not be amiss in assuming so, did we not have one in our midst with the potential to achieve that which has not been done in a very long time.”

Truva looked once more to Aragorn, for it was clearly he Gandalf spoke of. “And what of Legolas? And Gimli?” said the Ranger. “They will feel sore at being left out.”

“Then sore they must be,” said Gandalf. “Though we might press our advantage, we still do not have the time to dally; and a horse bearing two riders – one of whom is unaccustomed to riding – would only serve to slow you and attract unwanted attention. Go as two, and may you return as many.”

Aragorn rose to his feet. “It is ineffectual to argue with a Wizard when he has set his mind to something,” he sighed.

“Verily; now more than ever,” said Gandalf.

The three went their separate ways, each to their separate thoughts. Truva felt somewhat vexed and wholly ignored, for never once in their counsel had her opinion been asked. To ride with this Ranger who had not trusted her, with whom her relationship was still tenuous, on a task she did not fully comprehend the purpose of, was beyond any command she had ever received.

Once wrapped in her meagre blankets, Truva lay awake until morning. Her mind reeled with thoughts of Hobbits and Ents and flashes of battles and warriors now gone from the world; yet what troubled her greatest was that her projected path would bring her ever closer to the one place she had spent an agonizing amount of time and energy driving every trace of from her memory – the horrors which still caused her to wake in a cold sweat when they walked in her nightmares, whip in hand. Yes, the possibility of returning to her dreaded birthplace was what weighed most heavily in Truva’s mind, and prevented her from closing her eyes even for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, both Saruman and Gríma live on, only to cause chaos in the Shire (and face their ultimate end).
> 
> In the theatrical release, the two characters fade off into the background.
> 
> In the extended editions, however, Gríma kills Saruman upon the tower of Orthanc.
> 
> Cristopher Lee, the actor who portrayed Saruman, served in WWII, and had first-hand knowledge of the sound a man makes when stabbed in the back. I highly recommend [this short video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TQARRckm6U&feature=youtu.be&ab_channel=SHEEPSLEEPDEEP) from the behind-the-scenes footage of _The Two Towers_ , wherein Lee explains to director P. Jackson his misconceptions about death.


	14. Northward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Borodin, In the Steppes of Central Asia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaO9FBtDzyk&ab_channel=BartjeBartmans) and [Sibelius, Finlandia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Um1CE138NpI&ab_channel=AbeGonzalez)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Bridge in autumn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uhRxK_EOm4&ab_channel=TheSilentWatcher)

Truva was thankful the next morning when the rest of camp rose as restless as she, and all riders were about by the time faint daylight began to outline the eastern horizon. Blankets were rolled, utensils were packed, weapons were shouldered, and horses were saddled long before the sun itself could be seen. All parties began to congregate in their appointed groups, but not without several vociferous complaints.

“What d’ye mean he’s not coming with us?” demanded Gimli of Gandalf when he learned of Aragorn’s departure northward.

“Then we shall go with him!” Legolas added.

“You cannot possibly send Truva away with this Ranger!” said Éomer loudly. Both he and Éofa appeared equally outraged, for Truva was under their command and they would not see her travel alongside one who had so blatantly disrespected all the sacrifices she had made for the Eorlingas, no matter how close they had grown upon drawing blades in battle together.

“Friends,” said Aragorn, his tone conciliatory, “Our paths will diverge for but a moment; we will rejoin you soon. Each of our paths is crucial, and our numbers cannot be divided any other way.”

“Still, it strikes me as wrong to be left out of a potential adventure,” grumbled the Dwarf.

“Come, Gimli, we shall have our own adventure – one which they will assuredly regret having missed out on,” said Legolas, turning to the Riders that gathered about Théoden.

“I suppose there will be significantly better eatings in the King’s company,” said Gimli.

“Your foresight is exceptional,” laughed Theoden King. “I shall personally ensure that you do not come to rue your presence among the Horsemen!”

“In that case, let us mount up!” Gimli said, demanding his horse be led to a tree stump so that he might clamber upon Arod, rather than allowing himself to be aided by the Elf. Once the Dwarf was seated, Legolas leapt deftly up behind.

Gandalf and the Hobbit named Peregrin Took departed first and in quite a rush, leaving few words of parting. Éomer and his two companions set off next, quick to move as they were so few in number, yet it was not long after that the remaining Eorlingas followed, led by Théoden King and accompanied by the strange visitors Legolas, Gimli, and the second Hobbit Meriadoc. Their paths lay in the same direction, after all, and thus would travel together until the road split just before Hornburg, where The King would turn toward the fortress and Éofa would continue on to Dunharrow.

Aragorn and Truva alone remained behind, watching the last of the riders as they disappeared between the trees. Truva glanced at Aragorn, and when he returned her look they wordlessly mounted up and rode northwestward, in the opposite direction of the others.

They were to travel northwest until clear of the Misty Mountains’ southernmost tip, after which they would turn fully north and cling to the foothills until they reached their destination; though in truth it still was not entirely clear in Truva’s mind what destination that might be. It was a simple enough trek, and Truva was certain she could accomplish it on her own were they to be making for the Hidlands, yet she felt as though there was some hidden purpose she was not privy to. Even as she looked to the taciturn Ranger, he appeared lost in thought.

They traveled at a good clip for the entirety of the day, stopping only briefly to rest and water their horses, taking quick bites themselves before pressing on again. Mountains loomed ever taller before them, and soon they veered north and it was to their right the snow peaked crags rose.

Even after deep darkness fell and Truva had to look to the stars to discern time, as Éomer had taught her, they continued on. It was approaching midnight before Aragorn guided Hasufel to a slight hollow beneath a rocky outcrop and halted. Truva dismounted and immediately set about making camp, though the Ranger stopped her when she began to gather firewood.

“No fires tonight,” he said. “We know now why these barren lands in the vicinity of Isengard have been especially treacherous of late, yet it is best not to assume any unnecessary risk. Even with the fall of Saruman’s forces, there is no saying what creatures might lurk about.”

“Well, there is no great need for a fire, as it is,” conceded Truva, noting the surprisingly warm temperature of the evening as she stretched out beside Bron, using her knapsack as a pillow. She felt neither hungry nor terribly tired, so she simply tucked her arms behind her head and watched the dark shadows of clouds scuttle across the sky, obscuring patches of stars here and there. Silence reigned, yet she could tell by the sound of Aragorn’s light breathing that he, too, slept not.

At long last, the Ranger asked, “What will it take for you to forgive me?”

“Beg pardon?” said Truva, startled by his words and not entirely sure what to make of them. She turned her head in his direction but could make out no more than his outline in the darkness.

“Not that I expect forgiveness, having been so clearly in the wrong,” he quickly amended. “It is merely— We are ostensibly allies…”

He trailed off and did not finish. Conflicting emotions roiled in Truva’s mind, for though he had been instigator in the plot against her, his doubt had been born of a concern for the very people she herself wished to protect. Forgiveness was a great hope indeed, but perhaps not inconceivable; and then a thought suddenly struck Truva’s mind.

“Teach me,” she said bluntly.

“Beg pardon?” It was now Aragorn’s turn for confusion.

“The Eorlingas have shown me a great deal, it is true, yet they know little beyond the borders of their own land. I see now that the world is vast and there is so much more to be learned. Teach me of the flora and fauna that we do not know, of tracking in terrain that does not exist in the Mark, of legends and tales we have never heard.”

Aragorn quietly mused upon this proposition a moment. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I should hope so, for I do not see any particular need to forgive you otherwise,” said Truva, though even as she spoke these words she felt a twinge of guilt, for was it not Aragorn alone who had spoken in support of her sympathy for Gríma? 

“Very well,” said Aragorn, wrapping himself in his Elven cloak and turning slightly from her as if to sleep. “We shall begin in the morning.”

Though they fell silent then, Truva could not shake the feeling that she herself also owed the Ranger some indication of repentance. She made as if to speak several times before gathering sufficient courage to say, “And how might I make reparation for having misjudged you, in return?”

Aragorn did not answer right away, and Truva feared he had indeed fallen off into repose until he spoke at last. “Learn,” was his simple answer. “Now rest while you may, for my teaching will not be easy.”

“I would not ask for it to be,” said Truva, resettling herself in the bundle of her cloak and all too soon drifting off to sleep.

True to his word, Truva felt as though she had slept no more than a few minutes before Aragorn roused her the next morning. In the gray, early morning light, he led her to the sparse woods upon the foothills of the mountains and showed her what could be foraged – indicating to her the distinctions between edible and poisonous mushrooms, pointing out what sproutlings were a sign of palatable tubers, and laughing good-naturedly when she experienced the painful setbacks of collecting nettles and gorse.

Hardly had they finished enjoying the literal fruits of Truva’s labors when they remounted and struck northward, once again hugging the foothills and any feature of the land that obscured them from view. Truva paid as much attention to Aragorn’s unspoken movements as she did his lectures on the history of the north that he relayed as they rode, tales of the Númenóreans who came from the sea before fading away. For one who had hitherto been so reticent, it was astounding how loquacious the Ranger could be, given a topic to speak upon.

As the light faded that evening, Aragorn showed Truva new methods of tracking, revealing to her the secrets of the barren lands that stretched westward from the Misty Mountains as far as the eye could see. They quickly gave up their task, however, for a sharp wind passed that night from over the peaks, bringing with it a heavy mist of rain.

They made camp in a rocky area, and knowing that Bron always grew feisty in the rain – and made it abundantly clear he despised being wet – Truva pitched a canvas tarp off a small escarpment to ward off the chill and damp. Believing their position to be sufficiently distant from whatever shadows of Saruman’s ill will lingered, Aragorn surmised they might risk a fire, and thus both warriors and their equine companions made themselves as comfortable as could be, tucked between the windscreen and rock.

The wind howled as they supped upon a simple dinner before lounging beside the fire. Aragorn observed with bemusement as Truva unlaced her soaking boots and placed them by the fire, then proceeded to peel off her wool socks and likewise hang them to dry.

“What a peculiar habit,” the Ranger said, hiding his expression of amusement by bending his head over his pack in search of his pipe, so as not to offend.

“I have heard tell of men dying from wearing wet boots in the cold too long,” said Truva somberly, noting Aragorn’s repressed mirth and nevertheless choosing to ignore it. She wiggled her toes before the flames with great satisfaction. “There are a great many noble ways to die, yet I would not count that as one amongst them.”

The amusement passed from Aragorn’s face then, and after hesitating only briefly, he too removed his boots and socks, setting them before the fire. They sat a moment, silent save the crackling of the fire and the eerie whistle of wind and rain through scraggly trees. Having found his pipe, Aragorn struggled to light it in the damp air.

Truva recalled a story she had often been told on similarly windy nights in the Hidlands. Inclined suddenly to extend toward Aragorn a small gesture of forgiveness, she said, “Many stories of your people and their history you have told me today; shall I not return the favor, and speak a short piece on the beliefs of the place from whence I came?”

“Indeed, I would greatly appreciate a story,” said Aragorn, finally succeeding in setting fire to his pipe.

“It is said in the Hidlands that when the wind howls thus, a new slave has come into being,” said Truva, her voice solemn as she gazed off into the nothingness of the night. “It is said that the sound of the wind is the crying of an abandoned baby, and that the free villager who finds it will surely grow rich. All ‘found’ slaves are attributed to this legend, thus allowing many owners to lie unabashedly about the birthdate of their property, and turn fighters profitable long before their tenth birthday.”

Truva paused a moment before she continued. “It was not until later that I discovered there is a fissure in the rocks toward the north of the Valley, and when the wind blows frightfully, the sound of it streaming between the fissure mimics the sound of a wailing babe. I know it is no more than a tale, yet it haunts me in some inexplicable way even now.”

“The Dúnedain have a similar story,” said Aragorn, and as he spoke Truva gazed across the fire, only to see the precise image Meriadoc had described: Strider, reclining easily against his rucksack, wrapped in a dark cloak with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, and smoking casually as though all the cares of the world could not penetrate his serenity.

The kingly air she had glimpsed upon the gates of Hornburg had fallen away, as had the sense of mystery he effused upon their initial meeting, to reveal a Man and nothing more – a Man whose simplicity rendered his deeds all the more spectacular. It was then that Truva at last felt as though she had begun to decipher Aragorn somewhat, as though his existence had gained some weight of actualization, and she felt a degree of her resentment toward him slip away.

“It is said that long ago, two Rangers fell in love, yet they were incapable of conceiving a baby for many years,” he spoke. “When at last they bore a child, it was stolen away and they spent their lives in search of the babe. The cry of the wind is their lament for their lost child.”

“Two stories not so similar, yet both alike in the suffering of Man,” said Truva, and Aragorn stared pensively into the distance, the glow of his pipe gently illuminating the features of his face. They spoke no more, and merely settled in for what little rest they might get before the dawn.

For several days, a similar pattern of long riding and quiet nights repeated, then days turned into weeks. The two riders came upon the river Glanduin, yet the land was no more flourishing for the presence of water. A second arm of the river also appeared, and as they crossed it Aragorn pointed toward the three peaks of Celebdil, Caradhras, and Fanuidhol. He began to explain the history of the Dwarves in Khazad-dûm, but stopped suddenly. When Truva pressed him to continue, he shook his head and said, “Not now. Be wary of Orcs.”

But there was not a soul to be seen, save for the game Truva was beginning to realize through Aragorn’s tutelage was far more plentiful than she had first assumed. The desolate land was slowly beginning to open before her eyes, and where she had once seen bleakness she now saw beauty.

Aragorn’s countenance altered subtly the more the land slipped by beneath them, however, and Truva grew concerned. The Ranger’s pace quickened, and he seemed simultaneously eager yet hesitant to travel further. This translated into a surprising increase in the Ranger’s garrulity, and Truva felt overwhelmed by the amount of information he now offered her; histories, legends, people past and present, lands and wars and forests and famines – there was no end to his lecturing, and yet Truva did not complain. She found it far preferable to uncomfortable silence, and was thankful for the opportunity to learn that which was not contained in Gríma’s minimal texts.

After some days, the quiet but steady sound of flowing water could be heard off in the distance to the west. As they continued on their path, the land became more lush and the sound of water gradually grew until it became an almost deafening roar.

“The Bruinen,” said Aragorn when at last the river came into view, wide and roiling and fierce. “Also known as Loudwater.”

“Aptly named,” Truva remarked.

“We will not have to cross it yet,” said Aragorn. They followed the river northeastward then, and camped one night upon its banks. Truva caught a spectacularly large trout to prove to Aragorn that the Eorlingas had, in fact, taught her a great many things, including how to fish. She longed to wrap it in big, thick leaves and steam it as Théodred had shown her, yet it had been long since Truva had seen any plant that produced sufficiently large leaves, and chose instead to grill the fish over a low fire.

When Truva stood to clear away the remnants of their meal, Aragorn waved her away. “Get some sleep,” he said, taking over for her. “Tomorrow will be a big day.”

His prophetic words caused Truva to wonder whether they neared the Hidlands as she feared, and her stomach turned at the thought of returning once more to the place of her youth. Despite the length of their journey, the uncertainty of its destination meant Truva had not been afforded the opportunity to brace herself in the face of past memories. She found it difficult to sleep that night, and woke several times; yet each time her eyes opened, she could see by the light of the moon and the tiny red glow of his pipe that Aragorn still sat awake.

The next morning, Truva awoke naturally just before the dawn, having grown accustomed to rising at Aragorn’s prompting, which came even earlier than Éomer’s. She mechanically broke her own camp, yet even as she did so she found Aragorn in the exact same position a the previous night, already prepared to depart.

All morning they traversed the rocky banks of the river, and save a brief respite for the horses around midday, continued on even as the sun passed overhead and began to lean toward the west. The sunset was beginning to splash heated colors across the currents of the Bruinen when they came upon a well-worn road that emerged from the west before fording the river and turning north.

Aragorn turned away from the bridge and instead followed the road ever north, though a rocky arm of the mountains now lay directly before them. The Bruinen split some distance further along, and still they followed the southern stream, their path quickly gaining in elevation and rocky cliffs flying up around them on both sides. Truva could not see where the road led beyond the numerous twists and turns of the road.

This area did not look familiar to her at all; it certainly did not resemble the entrance to the Hidlands that she recalled from her momentous dash toward freedom. The vegetation that grew on the surrounding slopes clearly thrived off the waters of the Bruinen and were vastly different from the dry, alpine foliage that Truva had known to grow in her homeland. She briefly considered asking Aragorn where they were headed, yet dared not when she saw the intense, pensive look upon his face.

She did not have to wait long to learn, however, for they had hardly walked another hour ere they reached a crest that squeezed between a narrow gap in the cliffs. From that vantage point became visible a sight that Truva would have considered unfathomable had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, spread out before her in the purple twilight.

High upon all sides rose sharp mountain peaks like a crown. They encircled a deep, narrow valley carved out over millennia by the roaring waters of the Bruinen, which was fed by countless falls cascading down the rocky terrain. Nestled deep within stood a city comprised of the most extraordinarily delicate architecture, the likes of which Truva had never beheld in all her life. Gatehouse and hall, ramparts and home were all woven seamlessly into the surrounding scenery, mere extensions of the trees themselves rather than intentional constructions. Even still, the entire valley felt empty and hollow, as though nature had taken over residence.

The path beneath the travellers’ feet led down a steep ledge carved from the mountainside, toward a bridge that passed over a smaller fork in the river. Truva followed Aragorn as he picked his way down the path and crossed at last through a small arch. The wall through which it ran rose straight from the river far below, only to tower high over a courtyard, two figures carved of stone standing as if on guard beside its entrance.

Aragorn paused in the courtyard, looking about as if searching, yet Truva could discern no one and nothing save the rush of water below. She jumped when a loud, clear voice called out suddenly from upon a flight of shallow stairs to their right.

“Aragorn! It is high time you arrived,” said the voice, and a figure slowly emerged from the gathering darkness. Dressed in deep, earthy browns, this being towered above Aragorn, who was no diminutive man himself. Perched gracefully upon his brow was an elegant silver band, and dark as his complexion was in comparison to the ethereal appearance of Legolas, the same regal nature clearly marked the two as of similar origin.

Gríma’s lessons all came rushing back, and Truva knew then where they were; Rivendell, dwelling of the High Elves: Imladris!

“Lord Elrond!” responded Aragorn. “Are you a sight for sore eyes, if you will pardon my indelicacy.”

“I have heard what befell you in Rohan,” said the puissant Elf, “And thus I will begrudge you no ill manner of speaking. I am happy to see you well.”

“And I you,” said Aragorn, and the two embraced.

“Your timing is impeccable, for there is one here who is most anxious to see you.”

Aragorn’s head picked up at these words, an unreadable expression flashing across his face. Was he ecstatic at the Elf’s words? Did he fear them? The ambiguity suggested both.

“Ah, here he comes now,” said Elrond. Within the shadows of a secondary pathway could be discerned a tall figure with an air of stateliness that Truva thought rivaled Aragorn himself. It was a Man, regal and stern-faced, garbed in an elegant grey cloak yet entirely unadorned, save a single silver clasp upon his left shoulder in the shape of a rayed star.

Aragorn stood motionless for a moment before a smile crept across his face. “Halbarad!” he exclaimed before moving swiftly to embrace the Man.

“And well it is to see you, my captain!” said the newcomer, returning the gesture. “Little news I had of you for far too long, and that which I did hear was dismaying. I was glad to receive your summons, and immediately gathered those I could find. We Dúnedain are thirty strong or so here in Rivendell.”

“Summons?” questioned Aragorn. “Glad as I am of this state of affairs, I sent no summons.”

“You may discuss the mystery later,” interrupted Elrond. “There is supper set in anticipation of your arrival, and a great many who wish to greet you.”

The Elven lord appeared almost unearthly as he motioned for servants to come forward and lead Bron and Hasufel to the stables, then gestured for the two travelers to follow after himself. Aragorn and Halbarad walked with arms about each other’s shoulders, chatting amicably as Truva trailed behind, feeling entirely as though she did not belong in this elegant refuge of Elves.

At one point as they walked, Halbarad motioned his hand toward her and Aragorn turned to say, “Ah yes, I had forgotten. This is Truva, a soldier of Théoden, King of Rohan.”

Halbarad turned and bowed in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Truva of Rohan.” His gaze conveyed nothing save the greatest respect, yet Aragorn’s dismissive attitude stung and she could not meet this stranger’s eye in confidence.

“The pleasure is mine,” she replied reservedly, bowing in kind then sinking back into silence as Aragorn and Halbarad returned to their conversation. Truva occupied herself with taking in the magnificent architecture as they wove their way along paths cobblestoned in moonlight to an enormous hall, illuminated as though a star shining across time. The building had seemed so much smaller from across the valley, yet it rose up to an immense height as Truva stood before its doors, and its peak she could not discern through the darkness.

When they entered, the travelers were greeted foremost by the delectable smell of food, which lay heaped upon a long table that extended from the entrance all the way to the far end of the hall. A few dozen guests were already seated about the table, almost all similar in appearance to Halbarad, though several Elves could be seen sitting amongst them.

Upon Aragorn’s appearance, they all rose and gave a great rousing cry. Truva was once again reminded of the Man she had glimpsed upon the gate of Hornburg – not of the solitary warrior she had encountered crossing the plains of the Mark, nor the unguarded figure of Strider beside a campfire, but the striking image of a leader others felt inexplicably inclined to follow.

“Welcome back, my lord!” called one man from the back, a greeting echoed by many others. As the clamour petered out, Elrond moved toward his seat upon a raised dais at the head of the table, yet even when Aragorn took a place below at the lord's right hand, he appeared almost equally regal. Halbarad stood opposite Aragorn, and invited Truva toward the chair beside him.

Once Elrond was seated, all others at the table followed suit, and it was with great discomfort that Truva allowed Halbarad to hold her seat out for her. She wondered why she was not bade to sit beside Aragorn, for the chair to his right had been left unoccupied. As dismissive as his earlier behavior had been, Truva felt she would be far more at ease in the company of a familiar companion rather than that of the new stranger, Halbarad.

She became entirely distracted, however, when upon Elrond’s invitation dinner began. All guests set upon the food arranged before them with great relish, though none more so than Truva, who had for weeks been subsisting off what little the land offered. To her surprise, the fare was composed exclusively of plants: grains, fruits, mushrooms, tubers and the like; yet it was prepared with such a degree of skill that Truva considered nothing to be lacking and very quickly became sated.

Halbarad made light conversation all the while, unheeding of Truva’s reticent turn – for she far preferred food to discourse. He spoke of how he and Aragorn had long patrolled the Northern lands as Rangers, and explained that those who sat about the table dressed as he was were likewise Dúnedain, gathered by ill news that emerged from the south. Despite his evident curiosity, Halbarad was respectful in his restraint and did not pry into details about Truva herself, instead filling her silence with his own blithe stories.

The meal continued, and Elrond was poised to lift his glass in toast when a side door of the hall opened, through which entered the most beautiful figure Truva had ever gazed upon. All present rose to their feet, and Truva scrambled to follow as she gaped in awe at this new arrival. She was clearly Elven, for her dark hair contrasted with luminous skin, and she was garbed in forest green robes that cascaded down her tall, lithe frame. A silver circlet rested upon her brow, making immediately apparent her resemblance to Elrond.

“Ah, my daughter!” cried Elrond. “Your timing is impeccable. Come, join us for a glass of wine and some stories.”

The Elf said nothing in response, merely nodded in acknowledgement of her father and glided toward the seat at Aragorn’s side, which Truva could then see was far more exquisite than any other in the hall save that of Elrond. She felt silly for having momentarily supposed that she herself might have sat there. An unfamiliar feeling crept its way into her heart as she watched Aragorn pour the Elf a glass of wine and offer it to her.

“To the future,” said Elrond, raising his own glass. “May it transpire not in the manner that we fear, and better than we might hope!”

“To the future!” the entire hall echoed. Truva realized then that she had a glass but no wine. She gave her glass a perfunctory wave, made as if to take a sip from it, then returned to her seat once others did so.

“Arwen,” Halbarad murmured, noticing Truva’s eyes upon the new arrival as he rectified her predicament by pouring wine into her glass.

“Peg pardon?” said Truva, accepting the glass ambivalently, once more only pretending to drink from it. The memory of her first experience with alcohol was still clear in her mind, and knowing that she had gone so long eating so little, she was hesitant to repeat the experience before a great many strangers that appeared far less welcoming than the Eorlingas.

“Her name is Arwen,” repeated Halbarad, surreptitiously nodding his head toward the Elf, who was now engaged in a whispered conversation with Aragorn, their heads bent reservedly toward each other. Some peculiar mood engulfed the two; an enigmatic expression lay upon Aragorn’s face, for a slight smile played at his lips, while his eyes retained the storm of emotions they had taken on in the past few days. As for the Elf, Truva found her wholly inscrutable yet beautiful beyond comprehension. 

“She is the daughter of Elrond, sister to Elladan and Elrohir,” Halbarad continued, indicating two Elves of stunningly similar appearance who sat further down the table.

“I see,” said Truva simply. Despite having so many more questions, she remained silent; the time did not feel appropriate, nor did she feel she knew Halbarad well enough to ask anything further. She allowed the Dúnadan to resume his tales, and continued to glance across the table.

It became apparent to her that it was Arwen who had bestowed the Stone of Eärendil upon Aragorn. If her suspicions were correct, however, it would be a terrible blow to Éowyn; there would be no comparison to the inimitable Elven daughter of Imladris’ lord. Yet even as she watched, their expressions altered almost imperceptibly, and Truva struggled further to discern what transpired between them.

The meal went on for some while longer, and though Truva had consumed far more than her fill, she was unable to stop herself and continued to nibble morsels of food now and again. It was to her great relief that the entire party retired at last through a corridor to an adjacent hall, where tall columns reached to the lofty ceiling and seat upon seat was arranged about a cheerily blazing fireplace. Truva secreted herself away into a corner as all diners found their places, yet she did not manage to evade the attention of Halbarad, who joined her. Elrond took a seat upon a throne of woven sapling branches, positioned to one side of the resplendent hearth, and Arargorn, accompanied by Arwen, sat opposite.

A chair placed directly before the fire, however, was soon occupied by Elladan – or perhaps it was Elrohir, Truva could not be sure. The Elf’s full, sonorous voice rang out in words Truva could not understand, and yet there was little need for comprehension, for meaning still somehow pierced her breast and moved her almost to tears. The melody lilted its way through the air, spinning a golden nest that enshrouded Truva and made her feel as though she and the music alone existed in an isolated sanctuary, impenetrable to the outside world.

Halbarad leaned in close. “It is the love story of Lúthien and Beren, and the heartbreak of Daeron.”

“Ah, I think I have heard this tale,” said Truva. “Upon falling in love, Lúthien presented Beren to her father, who disapproved of his Elven daughter choosing a mere mortal and thus set Beren upon an impossible task…”

Truva fought to continue the tale, yet as each new wave of tender music washed overhead, her consciousness began sinking beneath the surface of wakefulness to a long-sought refuge, a haven she had not realized how desperately she desired. She entrusted her entire body and mind to the feeling, suddenly overwhelmed by a tranquility and security that she had never known to exist.

All sense of time was lost, and all at once she found herself waking from sleep. The other brother, whether Elrohir or otherwise, sat upon the chair singing a different tune. Halbarad was no longer beside her, and Aragorn and Arwen were absent as well. Reluctant to submit herself again to a complete lack of control, Truva stood and slipped out through one of the numerous doors that led from the hall.

She found herself in a courtyard, bordered by elegant hedges and the sound of the Bruinen rushing far below. Flagstones gleamed in the clear moonlight, yet her feet made no noise as they crossed over the cool yard and down a side path that led up toward the mountains. Not knowing where to go, or where she was expected to quarter that night, Truva followed her nose to the one place she knew she would feel comfortable: the stables.

It was just as she passed over a bridge spanning a tiny creek that Truva collided with a dark figure emerging from another path.

“Oh, terribly sorry, my Lady!” the figure said.

“Ah, Halbarad,” said Truva. “Firstly, I am a soldier, not a lady; and secondly, I am afraid I must seem inescapable to you tonight.”

“On the contrary, my lady, it is I who must seem frustratingly unshakable,” said Halbarad, ignoring her correction. “Although, in all honesty, I did believe the Elves’ entrancing spell would claim you at least a little while longer.”

“Why do you wander about this evening, while all the others linger in the hall?” asked Truva.

“I might ask of you the same,” said Halbarad.

“I was attempting to find the stables, to check on my horse.”

“Well, that is far less nefarious than my own purpose,” said Halbarad with a laugh.

“Which would be?” prompted Truva.

“Come, allow me to show you.” Halbarad beckoned as he guided her further along the path, following the creek that trickled over its stony bed before tumbling into a vast pond. The gentle moonlight reflecting upon the water’s surface revealed banks overgrown with flowering rushes, and far upon the opposite side arched an elegantly carved bridge.

Halbarad shushed Truva, though she made no sound, and gestured for her to hide behind the pillars of a gazebo a short distance ahead. She did not understand his desire for secrecy at first, but then he indicated the bridge to her and she understood.

Peering into the dim surroundings, Truva could just scarcely distinguish two figures standing upon the slope of the bridge, awash in the diffused light of the moon. A single glance was all she required to confirm it was Aragorn and Arwen, arm in arm, talking so low that nothing save murmurs reached across the pond.

“Do you know their story?” whispered Halbarad.

“I know little of Aragorn, and even less of the Elves,” said Truva.

“Many moons ago, Aragorn told me of how he fell in love with Arwen the very moment she returned from Lothlórien to Imladris, yet as he was still in his youth, it was not until a great many years later that the entrancing Lady Arwen came to return his affections.”

“Man and Elf, mortal and immortal, just like Lúthien and Beren.”

“It was by no accident Elrohir chose to sing that song this night,” said Halbarad. So the first to sing had been Elrohir, Truva noted. She gazed out across the pond at the two figures, so close together they had become one.

As she watched, a flash of silver and green streaked across the rippling waters, as of a star willing itself to shine brighter in oppressive darkness. The light intensified for the briefest of moments before plunging suddenly into the depths of the pond, where it slowly descended ere fading from view entirely. Truva heard Halbarad give a slight intake of breath, yet all significance was lost on her.

She continued to gaze into the water after the disappeared gleam, until after a pause Halbarad tapped his fingers at her elbow. “Let us go now; there is not much more for us to see. I do believe you were bound for the stables?”

And with that, he led her back along the path by which they had come, guiding her on a convoluted route that ultimately arrived at Truva’s original destination. The grandeur of the stables was in keeping with the rest of Imladris, for though the walls were low the roof came to a delicately arched peak, and carved into every beam was intricate latticework that depicted the equine history of the Elven haven.

As Truva pushed aside the elegant gates, Bron’s impatient snorts were easily distinguished from the reserved silence of mounts that occupied neighboring stalls. Her worries were placated upon seeing he had been immaculately groomed – his mane and tail even braided in the style of Elves – and she ran her hands over him admiringly. Halbarad gave words of praise, and Bron responded approvingly when he proffered countless treats.

When at last they took their leave of the contented horse, Halbarad said, “Come, you must be weary. I know where it is you are expected to sleep tonight.”

As soon as he spoke thus, Truva found his words surprisingly insightful, for she was far more tired she herself had realized. Lacking the energy to so much as reply, Truva merely followed when Halbarad led her up a series of staircases to a patio that overlooked the valley. Her drooping eyes took in few details, save her meagre possessions stowed neatly along one wall and a sleeping gown laid upon a massive, enticing bed.

“I believe it is time I take my leave,” said Halbarad, bowing before retreating from the patio and melting into the darkness. Even had he granted her time to wish him goodnight, Truva did not think the words would come; speaking required too great an effort. She collapsed at once upon the bed, and was fast asleep before she could summon the strength to remove her travel-worn clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we are a little more than halfway through this tale, I would like to sincerely thank every reader who has made it thus far. Especial gratitude goes to those who took the time and effort to comment, for it is your words that encourage me greatest when I struggle. Here’s to the remaining thirteen chapters!
> 
> I would also like to add that, while [trench foot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trench_foot) wasn’t even noted until 1812, I hope you will consider its addition a writerly whim. Please forgive also my incorrect usage of “comprised”; for I adore the word, and “composed” too strongly reminds me of its musical connotations (although the archaic meaning “settle,” as in a debt, is quite intriguing).


	15. Return to the Hidlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s recommended listening: [Prokofiev, Symphony No. 5 in B-flat major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSihvfCV5a4&ab_channel=ProkProk)  
> Alternatively, recommended ambiance: [Rainforest at night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_X4RV9A3CxM&ab_channel=NewBliss)

Truva awoke quite some time before dawn the next morning, as her body had been conditioned to do by weeks of traveling with Aragorn. She quickly washed up in a corner basin, then changed at last from her filthy garb into a flowing robe that had been folded and left neatly upon her pack. She delighted in the gentle swish of fabric against her clean skin as she wandered the ethereal city, watching the pink haze creep up from behind the towering mountains to throw color back into the dell, and she found her aimless footsteps ultimately returned to Bron.

“Why cannot Men and Elves and the like be as easily understood as horses?” Truva bemoaned aloud to her companion as she leaned into Bron’s muscular shoulder. He took the opportunity to nibble her fingers and reprimand her for the lack of treats.

Truva was halfway through brushing his tail when a gong sounded in the distance. Assuming it was to signal breakfast, she took her time in finishing up, for though Bron had been immaculately groomed by the Elves and her efforts were needless, Truva was in no rush to sit through another awkward meal.

When she at last entered the hall, Truva was relieved to see the long table was nearly empty. She took a seat set apart from what few occupants there were, and quickly turned her attention to the breads and cheeses that were set out upon the table. She was just spreading butter across a slice of rye when a voice directly behind her gave her a start.

“Good morn, fair Lady of Rohan!” it said. Truva spun around, only to lay eyes upon the northern Ranger Halbarad, cheerful despite the early hour.

“I do believe I have explained I am no lady, merely a soldier,” Truva corrected with rather unnecessary sullenness, “And it may be morning, but its goodness is certainly in question.”

Halbarad either did not notice or intentionally chose to ignore her peevishness, instead pulling out a seat and selecting a cluster of grapes that lay nestled among the loaves of bread.

“There is to be a council directly after breakfast; surely you are expected to attend. Shall I show you the way?” he asked, though he seemed to anticipate her lack of answer and merely continued to consume the grapes. Despite her own discomfort in meeting new people, Truva could not help but respect the Ranger’s unconcerned attitude.

When they had both eaten their fill, Halbarad led Truva from the hall and to a stone staircase, more product of nature than construction of working hands, which climbed steeply up a jutting finger of the mountains. From the vantage point upon the hilly crest, even the massive roof of the dining hall disappeared among the other buildings, dwarfed by the sheer height of the precipice, and the rush of the Bruinen below fell to a whisper.

A few Rangers had already gathered about a small table in the center of the platform, conversing in low tones with the Elves that reclined there. It was not long before Aragorn himself appeared, alone, and aside from a curt nod in the direction of Halbarad and Truva, he acknowledged no one.

Complete silence fell when Elrond mounted the steps and took a seat at the head of the table and said, “It is time for us to discuss matters as they currently stand. Darkness spreads across the lands of Middle Earth, threatening and unbidden, and we must now decide what is to be the fate of our peoples. These are not decisions to be made lightly, for all that comes after hangs in the balance of what choices we now make.”

“My Lord,” began Aragorn, and Truva was startled to hear how feeble and hollow his voice sounded. “I know it is pointless to beseech you, yet—”

“Yes, it is pointless,” replied Elrond. “My people have a destiny that lies beyond the lives of Men. Our fate is interwoven with that of the fellowship’s mission; should they succeed, so too shall we fade away. Should the fellowship fail, however...”

“Yet long have you lived amongst us,” said Halbarad as Elrond trailed off, the Ranger’s mien far more indomitable. “Do you not owe us any allegiance ere you sail to the shores of Valinor?”

“We owe a great allegiance, it is true, and thus have done what lay even beyond obligation, beyond your comprehension,” Elrond said mildly. Truva’s head turned from one speaker another, wholly lost as to what mission they spoke of, and of what allegiance, and what a place Valinor might be.

“Then will you not grant us succor?” Aragorn implored Elrond.

“Aid you we shall, but perhaps not in the way you hope,” said the Elven lord.

“Then in what way will you deign to aid us?” asked Halbarad.

Elrond, ignoring the Dúnadan’s impishness, merely replied, “There is one among your company who will provide you with assets you have little notion of. To that end, we shall supply you with a herd of our finest horses, all supplied with weapons and provisions enough for a month’s journey.”

“Horses cannot fight against the forces that gather now in Mordor!” shouted Halbarad, seething.

“My brave Ranger, trust in what will come to pass,” said Elrond as Aragorn extended an arm to stay his raging friend.

“What will come to pass is the death of all that is good in Middle Earth if you do not come to our aid, sitting idly within your mountain sanctuary!” Halbarad continued before rounding on Aragorn. “How is it you accept this betrayal so calmly?”

Aragorn inhaled deeply before addressing the Elven King with level tones. “Will you not at least afford your soldiers the choice of joining us?”

“It is not a choice I have ever denied them,” replied Elrond, “Yet you see that few shall join you. Our fate lies elsewhere.”

“Very well,” said Aragorn, still restraining Halbarad. “It is with humble heart that we accept your generous offer. As our business is urgent, we shall depart as soon as possible.”

“You will find our resources have already been prepared and are at your disposal whenever you desire them,” said the Elf.

“I thank you for providing us with all that you are able,” said Aragorn, bowing deeply before turning to descend the stairs. Halbarad followed after a somewhat flippant bow, and the other Dúnedain present likewise took their leave. Suddenly pulled to awareness, Truva performed a clumsy bow then fled after the others. She could see Halbarad storming ahead beside Aragorn, and as she pulled close, she could just make out their conversation.

“Without their aid, we are lost, Aragorn!” raged Halbarad.

“Ever have we known the affairs of mortals begged little deference in the minds of Elves. Elrond’s decision is not wholly unexpected; it was but the glimmer of a hope that guided us to this point.”

“What do you suppose he meant by ‘one among our company’?” Halbarad wondered, then as one both he and Aragorn turned to look at Truva, who averted her eyes under their scrutiny.

“Truva,” called Aragorn, beckoning to her, and Truva moved closer. “Are your bags packed?”

“Always,” Truva replied.

“Then I apologize. You shall need them for one more night – we leave tomorrow just before dawn,” said Aragorn.

“As you command, my Lord,” said Truva, sensing that she was dismissed. As she began to move away, however, she caught the last wisps of their conversation.

“If all is as you say, it is raither remarkable,” she faintly heard Halbarad remark.

“And it is not even to us whom she owes allegiance,” said Aragorn.

“I am ever curious as to what contrivances whirl in the mind of that Wizard…” yet Halbarad’s voice trailed off as Truva turned down a side path, away from the others. She went first to her accommodations to ensure that, despite Aragorn’s assurance that they would depart on the morrow, her possessions were still in order. There, she found her garments had been freshly laundered and laid neatly upon the bed. She packed them in her rucksack then sat upon the bed, gazing listlessly out across the dell.

With little else to occupy her, Truva made a brief visit to Bron before filling the afternoon with exploration, wandering the intricate paths of Rivendell. Up and down hills ornamented with delicate andromeda shrubs, behind the deafening flows of waterfalls which sparkled and sent up a misty lace into the late afternoon sun; and along scraggly, moss-laden cliffs her meanderings took her, offering the most breathtaking sights imaginable to one whose youth was spent surrounded barren alpine rock, and whose latter days had been dominated by the grassy plains of the Mark.

Truva slept that night engulfed in an easy, soothing peace, and rose early the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed. She left the borrowed robe folded upon the bed, then took her pack to the stables and loaded it onto Bron before scrounging for treats from the dining hall to take on the journey. She waited impatiently as the group of Rangers filtered into the stables and prepared to depart, dipping her feet into a pleasantly bubbling stream. She grasped at each fleeting moment of serenity as it flew by, for she sensed that coming events would offer little respite.

During a quiet lull in the half-light of dawn, the hair at the nape of Truva’s neck fanned as if disturbed by a gentle breeze, though no trees about her stirred. Some impulse bade her look left, and in doing so Truva saw the Lady Arwen scrutinizing her with a peculiar intensity. Truva leapt to her feet immediately, splashing water from the stream over herself and the flagstones, and nearly soaking the Elf who had approached unnervingly close without being detected.

“My Lady,” Truva stammered as she bowed low.

“Come now,” said Arwen, kindly laying a hand upon Truva’s arm, and unlike when all others did so, Truva felt no compulsion to shy away from her touch. “There is no need for either such pomp or circumstance.”

“Yes, My Lady— Arwen,” said Truva. The Elf laughed, though her laughter was light and musical and not in any way mocking, and the glow that effused from her mesmerized Truva, for it created a veil that softened her milky skin, stark against her black hair. When Arwen spoke again, her voice was not a voice but the embrace of a loved one, the scent of first rain, the sound of trees growing in the forest.

“I have heard a great deal about you,” she said, and Truva nearly did not comprehend the meaning of her words, so entranced was she by the lyricism of the Elf’s voice. “Aragorn says that even in the short time he has known you, your story has proven to be quite remarkable.”

“It is unexpected that he spoke to any extent on matters of mine, considering how he is typically so unforthcoming,” Truva mumbled, frowning internally yet not wishing for the elegant creature before her to discern her base emotions. Arwen smiled, and Truva understood that no matter how desperately she sought to hide her thoughts, she was as transparent as the waters of Imladris to the Elf.

“I have a present for you,” Arwen said after a moment’s pause, “But it is conditional.”

“What are the conditions?” asked Truva guardedly.

“There is but one: that you devote its use to the protection of those you now ride with.”

“That is to say, the protection of Aragorn?” Truva hazarded.

“Sharp is your discernment,” Arwen said, ducking her head abashedly – the first indication of anything aside from unshakable poise that Truva had observed. “Yes, the protection of Aragorn.”

Truva sighed, for it seemed like an eternity ago and a sky’s breadth away that Héodis had entrusted to her the safety of Éomód, and subsequently Éowyn the safety of the very man that Arwen now also showed concern for. Truva felt doubt once again begin to encroach upon her consciousness, unsure of whether she was capable of fulfilling the tremendous expectations placed upon her.

Arwen seemed to sense Truva’s discomfort, for she once again laid a reassuring hand upon Truva’s shoulder. She pulled then a bow and a quiver full of arrows as if from midair. Truva gazed agape at the beauty of the weapon presented to her; never before had she seen a bow made of rowan wood, yet its golden hue stood out against the decorative opalescent inlay in the most entrancing way. Truva instinctively reached out to stroke the impressive workmanship, then withdrew her hand suddenly when she recalled her place.

“Take it,” Arwen urged, holding out the bow in offering, “It is yours.”

“Why do you not give it to one of the Dúnedain; Halbarad, perhaps?” said Truva.

“Long have the Dúnedain ridden with Aragorn, and well they know his ways – too well. It is difficult for them to shake their perception of the proud leader, unwavering and undaunted. They do not see him as you do, for you perceive him anew with eyes unprejudiced, and visible to you are the dangers others overlook.

“I suppose I must also mention that we have already supplied the Dúnedain with weapons of the greatest craftsmanship,” she added with a hint of a smile.

“Oh,” said Truva, feeling foolish. “Even still, I cannot in good faith guarantee Aragorn’s safety.”

“The time of guarantees has passed; even the sight of the Elves has dimmed now, and nothing is certain. I ask not for your assurance – merely your will, your strength and determination.” Arwen took Truva’s hand in her own and laid it gently upon the bow. Truva ran her fingers along the length of its curve, feeling the tautness and unparalleled smoothness; then she took it in her grip and drew the string, testing its tension. At last she clutched the bow to her chest, slipping the quiver over her shoulder.

“I am aware that a bow is not your weapon of choice,” Arwen admitted, “Yet I believe you might wield it well in times of necessity.”

“May such times never come to pass,” said Truva.

“They shall come to pass, and sooner than any suspect. It does not require the foresight of Elves to know that the events which we fear greatest lie upon the very threshold of time. But do not despair,” she added quickly, seeing the terror that welled in Truva’s eyes, “For nothing is certain, neither the triumph of Man nor the rise of evil. May hope ever flourish in the breast of those who seek to protect all that is good in Middle Earth.”

With these words, she laid a hand upon Truva’s chest, and a wave of calm washed over the Eorlingas warrior. Truva closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in tranquility the Elven touch conveyed, yet when she opened her eyes again Arwen was already moving away. Though her back was turned, Truva could sense a quiet desolation emanating from her.

Truva paused a moment to watch Arwen’s retreating figure, then looked to the bow that lay in her hands. As she tested its string once more, Truva hoped that its danger would be equivalent to its beauty, though no amount of gilding could compensate for an inexperienced bowman’s arm such as hers.

Truva still stood barefoot at the creekside, examining her new possession, when Aragorn strode into the stables. She was surprised to note he had exchanged his forest green cloak of Lórien for the dark gray of the Riders, though he did not pause to explain as he threw himself upon Hasufel and shouted, “Come, let us ride!”

Truva quickly stepped into her boots and approached Bron, who was practically dancing in anticipation. She mounted up and joined the parade of Rangers who had likewise been roused by Aragorn’s cry, the hooves of their horses clacking thunderously upon the stone walkway that wound through Rivendell.

Among the Dúnedain rode Elladan and Elrohir, the Elven sons of Elrond, who desired to join their cause; and behind them streamed an entire herd of horses – hundreds in number – all riderless yet saddled and supplied with bulging saddlebags. Truva could only guess as to their purpose, though they made a fearsome sight nevertheless.

The assembly made its way over the bridge beyond the borders of Rivendell, traversing the secluded mountain crags and once again rejoining the Bruinen just as the morning light began to paint the cliffsides golden. Rather than making southward back along the route Aragorn and Truva had come by, however, the company turned northward, toward the haze of the Ettenmoors just visible on the horizon.

The travelers were silent at first, still shaking off the last tendrils of sleepy fog, but then voice by voice individual conversations picked up. The lively atmosphere felt peculiar to Truva, who had spent the past several weeks traveling in the taciturn company of Aragorn, who spoke only on the occasion that he had some knowledge he wished to impart upon her.

Truva felt no desire to break her silence with these unfamiliar and aloof figures, yet Halbarad did not share her reticence. The morning sun was still low in the sky when he dropped back from his position at the front of the company to ride beside her.

“Good morning, soldier! How did you sleep last night?” he inquired cheerfully.

“I slept,” Truva responded obstinately, though she was thankful he had at last chosen to address her in accordance with her proper station. Halbarad shifted in his saddle at her standoffishness.

“Is there some quality of mine that provokes your ire?” he asked. Truva started suddenly, for she had not until that very moment realized how unbearably tense she had grown since the Battle of the Fords, and weeks of travel with the equally untalkative Aragorn had done nothing to improve her temperament; yet Halbarad’s question demonstrated that her reticent demeanor affected not only herself but others as well, and she felt ashamed for having behaved in such brusque manner toward the kindhearted Dúnadan.

“Ah, that is not it,” she reassured Halbarad, rubbing the back of her neck in embarrassment.

“Perhaps you take me for Aragorn,” said Halbarad. “Though he, too, was once less troubled than he is now, even in his youth he was close. I believe the burden of expectation has caused him to doubt his own abilities heavily, for he is more distant and unapproachable than ever, yet I beg of you not to extrapolate his behavior to all Rangers.”

“It would be wrong to judge an entire group by a single member,” said Truva, recalling Aragorn’s lecture on the nature of Dwarves long ago, upon the heights of the Hornburg. Sensing that she owed Halbarad some form of overture, Truva hesitated but a moment more before asking, “So how is it that you came to know Aragorn?”

The Dúnadan smiled at her question, and launched into a story that consisted of shiver-inducing wolves and the Rangers’ protection of the Shire, which Truva paid particular attention to in her thirst for details regarding the Halflings she had so recently encountered. Even when Aragorn signalled a noontime halt he continued to recount a particularly cold winter, requiring little prompting to embellish upon the tale when the company took to their horses again.

Truva felt greatly relieved that Halbarad did not seem to expect any input beyond the occasional gasp or exclamation; she felt oddly soothed by his unending narration, and it made the homogenous landscape pass by more quickly. There was certainly a marked difference from Aragorn’s company, for even when he was lecturing her Aragorn was far more concise than his compatriot.

Not long after lunch, the company arrived at the banks of a river and began to pitch camp, though the sun was still fairly high in the western sky. With an alarming jolt, Truva recognized their location; the river was that which she had seen when departing the Hidland Valley, having won her freedom and joined the company of Eorlingas. Looking to the east, she saw Blackbramble Peak lurking amidst the ridges of the northern Misty Mountains, for despite the passage of many years its image remained seared into her memory.

Truva’s breath caught in her throat, and she struggled to dismount. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her when her feet hit the earth, and she was compelled to steady herself against Bron, unable to move further. Halbarad had already wandered off to his designated tasks, and the entire camp was likewise abuzz with movement and purpose, yet Truva could not seem to organize her thoughts or muscles. She was frozen in place by insurmountable trepidation, and it was in such an incapacitated state that Aragorn found her.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone curt. “We will enter the Valley when it grows dark. Did you not say to Gandalf there would be fighters willing to join our cause?”

“There are fighters enough,” Truva gasped, still struggling for breath. Though Gandalf had never spoken outright of his intentions, Aragorn’s words confirmed at last what she had long suspected; it had been easy enough to discern the Wizard’s aim in sending them northward. “Yet they are captives and know naught else — any attempt to anticipate their will is a fool’s gamble.”

“To free them is our primary duty,” said Aragorn. “Once granted that freedom, their choice is their own — though I do hope you might see fit to nurture in them some empathy for our cause.”

Truva inhaled a great lungful of air, attempting to parse Aragorn’s terse response into easily discernible phrases. His newly adopted callous disposition only served to amplify her disorientation, however, and she felt as though she intuitively understood his meaning while simultaneously failing to comprehend a single word.

“Get some food before you rest,” Aragorn continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “You shall be woken when it is time; it will be soon.”

In that very moment, Halbarad approached with a loaf of bread stuffed with roasted vegetables – a last parting gift of the Elves, who knew it would be long ere the company would sup on fresh fare again. Truva did not feel particularly inclined to eat, yet she took Aragorn’s advice and slowly consumed the meal. Once nothing save crumbs remained, she pulled her traveling cloak tight about her and rested her head upon her rucksack, for what need was there to pitch a tent when the company’s departure was imminent?

Truva had scarcely blinked her eyes when Aragorn shook her awake. He said nothing, for he had no need to. Though the light was gone from the sky, the heat of day lingered faintly, and the rustling of nocturnal creatures beginning to emerge marked the night as still fairly young.

Truva made as if to mount up, but Aragorn stayed her hands. “We go on foot,” he explained. “Bring only what you need.”

The entire company gathered – all save the Elven brothers who elected to remain behind and guard the horses – and set out into the darkness, following first alongside the banks of the river, then curving southeastward across the sparse scrubland. The Misty Mountains appeared little more than a deeper blackness against the night sky ahead, looming high above and obscuring the troops of stars that splayed out in unchanging formations.

Aragorn led them with clarity despite the darkness, setting a quick pace across the terrain which turned from scrubland to rocky foothills before too long. He silently called a halt and motioned for two Dúnedain to scout ahead as the rest of the party huddled under the meager cover of some scraggly heather. All save Truva seemed unbothered by their current mission, and Halbarad even crept over to attempt conversation.

“Long have I patrolled these northern reaches,” he said to her, “And on occasion I have heard tell of the Hidden Lands, though I have never visited. In all truthfulness, I did not believe it was a real place until you appeared. What is this Valley like?”

Truva was taken aback by his garrulous mood, yet was spared the trouble of formulating a response by Aragorn’s shushing. When Halbarad fell silent, pulling a face in Aragorn’s direction, the faint sound of a whippoorwill’s call could be heard on the wind. As one, the company arose, and by the time they reached the sheer face of the Valley’s entrance they were rejoined by the scouts.

“Only a handful of guards,” said one. “Half were asleep when we came upon them.”

“Good,” said Aragorn, “Keep a watchful eye. There may be more.”

As one, they slunk through the ravine that cut its way into the valley, staying off the trail and hanging close to the rocky mountain faces. So secretively did they move that not a single sound echoed off the stone to announce their progress.

Looking up at the moon as she often had so many years ago, time seemed to melt away and Truva felt as though she had never left the Hidlands. The wounds she had endured – both in body and in mind – now returned to her, all the sharper for having been long absent: the back of her hamstring where a whip had sliced especially deep, and her cheekbone, fractured times unnumbered yet never given the opportunity to heal fully. Her breath came in short, panicked bouts, and she might have seen her vision sway had anything save darkness been visible.

Suddenly, Aragorn was at her side. He clutched Truva’s arm, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt.

“Breathe,” he demanded. He inhaled a deep breath and waited for Truva to follow suit before exhaling slowly, slowly, then repeated the same pattern several times. When he then peered inquiringly into Truva’s eyes, she nodded shortly and he gave one last squeeze of her arm. The company, which Truva now realized had stopped to observe, once again moved forward.

Though she was mortified for having caused a disruption, Aragorn’s momentary reassurance had allayed some of her terror. A hum of tension still lingered, yet Truva no longer felt as though the world was closing in on her, and she trekked on in the midst of the Dúnedain, heartened by their numbers and stoicism.

The silhouettes of hovels and shelters on the outskirts of the first village gradually emerged in the light of the moon, then there, distinct among all other structures, rose the formidable Coliseum. Truva pulled up short, though it was but a fleeting fear that gave her pause; even as she looked upon the dilapidated announcer’s platform and gaping maw of the arena, a renewed sense of purpose welled within her, and she saw her course of action laid out clear before her.

Truva increased her pace and led the Rangers past the quiescent Coliseum to the main street that ran through the village. Unless the layout had greatly altered in the years since her departure, she knew precisely where along the market street the foremost cages would be found.

Some things never change, Truva thought to herself as the first cage came into view just beyond the folded canopy of a vegetable stall. She flew to its gate and whispered desperately to its occupant as she pulled out a pick and began to work at the lock – yet another skill she had learned from the Eorlingas.

Glossy eyes blinked open in the darkness as the pile of rags within began to stir.

“Truva?” the voice rasped. Truva’s head snapped up from her task. Staring back at her was her opponent from long ago, the one who had been stolen from her village far within the depths of the Hidlands, the one whose name she to this day did not know. The fighter looked significantly more bedraggled and gaunt – positively starved – and the right side of her face was swollen and cut from a recent fight, yet Truva recognized her in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” asked the fighter with a glance at the solemn Dúnedain that crowded around.

“I came back for you.”

“But why?”

“I shall explain soon,” Truva said as she finally toggled the lock loose and unlatched the cage. The fighter stumbled to her feet and out into the market path.

Truva handed an additional pin to the fighter. “Would you be willing to assist us?”

“In any way possible!” the fighter said, the tension in her voice palpable, for she was rejuvenated with an energy that but moments before would have seemed impossible.

“Take a few of my companions and travel to the nearest village. Have you knowledge of lockpicking?” she asked, motioning for a pair of Rangers to step forward.

“No.”

“I do,” interjected one of the Rangers.

“Excellent,” said Truva. “Release as many fighters as you may. If you are curious as to our cause, return to the Coliseum by dawn; otherwise, seize your freedom and do with it what you will.”

“I shall do as you say,” she responded, seizing the pick and turning to run further eastward along the main street, the Dúnedain following after.

“Wait!” The fighter had gone but a few steps before Truva’s whispered exclamation stopped her in her tracks. “What is your name?”

“Chaya,” said the fighter, her smile almost indiscernible in the darkness ere she melted away.

Truva turned to the next cage, that which she had spent her last remaining days of the Hidlands in. Another figure stirred there, roused by the commotion. Truva did not recognize this fighter, yet when she explained their mission, his enthusiasm for overthrowing his enslavers suggested he was a new fighter, still imbued with a rebellious spirit, outcast to the market cages to be broken. Truva sent him in the direction of the more southerly villages of the Hidlands, once again accompanied by two of the Dúnedain.

The remaining Rangers, Truva at their lead, made their way along the market street in a similar fashion, sometimes deviating down side streets where Truva knew certain slave owners’ personal teams to be held. Upon release, some fighters headed eastward, up deeper into the valley to release slaves from more distant villages. Others made their way westward, toward the entrance of the valley and their own personal freedom. A few chose to linger about their saviors, uncertain of events to come and unwilling to risk their newly obtained emancipation.

Despite Truva’s anticipation of the slave owners’ waking, the fighters encountered little resistance, even as they . Perhaps the free villagers were too accustomed to their comfortable lifestyle, sustained as it had been for generations, and never suspected that it might one day be compromised.

In the wee hours before dawn, the company made their way at last to the Training Compound and Fighters’ Quarters. Truva quickly dispatched the lock on the main gate and dashed to the foremost barracks, where there was nothing beyond a bar lowered from the outside. Truva lifted the beam and entered, paying little heed to stealth. She went from bed to bed rousing the fighters, many of whom were clearly too young to start their training, yet still they sat in the half light, rubbing their eyes and tumbling from their bunks.

“Truva? It’s Truva! Truva’s returned!” Whispers flitted around the barracks as older fighters who had witnessed her fight long ago informed the younger trainees, for some had even been born in the time since her departure. Their wide eyes and expressions of awe caused Truva’s heart to constrict; these young children certainly could not join the company in battle, yet it was for their future that those who did join Truva’s ranks would fight.

“Let us make haste,” said Truva when all the fighters had been roused. She led the fighters out into the Compound, where they mingled among the Rangers and expressed their gratitude; yet they had grown too lax, and suddenly a slave owner emerged from separate quarters just beyond the far gates.

Truva scarcely had the time to react before one of the older fighters bounded across the packed dirt of the Compound and knocked the slave owner unconscious with a single blow. Several other fighters made as if to congregate on the slave owner, but Truva’s voice rang out across the space.

“Wait!” she cried out desperately, and the fighters paused to look in her direction, confusion written clearly on their faces. “My friends, a great evil has been done upon you. I know, for I too suffered from it – yet do not allow it to consume you! Let us act with reason and purpose, and first hear all that might be said ere we act rashly.”

As one of the Dúnedain moved forward to tie the slave owner’s hands behind his back, a grumble of dissent spread throughout the fighters gathered there. Truva did not blame them, for once she would have reacted similarly; yet as she stood in the middle of the compound, surrounded by trainee and veteran fighters of all ages, she thought she could detect a faint lightening of the sky where it met the mountain ridges.

“My friends!” she called out once more, “It is time we all take what rightfully belongs to us: our freedom!”

With these words, a rousing cry flew up, and the fighters were content to follow Truva from the gates of the Compound, beyond which they came upon another group of fighters led by Chaya, having arrived from the nearest village. Their ranks swelled and became a giant stream, rushing through the banks of the market street like an unstoppable tidal wave.

The pink glow at the skyline had just barely begun to silhouette the mountain peaks by the time Truva arrived at the Coliseum, trailed by the mass of fighters that roiled like rapids wherever there was space to move. Rather than descend to the ring, however, as she had done countless times before, Truva ascended to the platform where fight commentators were accustomed to standing.

No sooner had she turned to face the Coliseum, its canvas ring and earthen stands entirely thronged with fighters of all Hidland origins, than a scuffle broke out at the main entrance. Several slave owners had arrived at last, and the masses could be seen shoving and pulling each other as infuriated shouts rang out. The tussle transformed into an onslaught as more free villagers appeared, having been roused by the noise, and immediately set about attacking the newly emancipated fighters.

Truva did not panic. She knew that any conflict between the fighters and their masters would end in their favor, for both the fighters’ numbers and skills were superior; yet she did not wish for violence to overwhelm the message this day, and so she took to the center of the platform and braced herself.

“Stop!” she cried, and her bold voice reverberated throughout the complex. All conflict halted immediately and a mass of faces turned to listen, suddenly silent.

Looking out upon the sea of expectant faces, a familiar sense of anxiety began to roil in Truva’s gut, exacerbated by the knowledge that her one-time owner Dregant most likely lurked in the crowd somewhere, his depravity a phantom that haunted her always. Her breath came in short gasps, and her throat began to close; she fought back the images of days long ago in the Hidlands, of her panic at the Hornburg when falsely accused, or Truva would not allow her past to dictate her future, or impede upon her ability to fulfil the duty expected of her.

“I believe you know who I am,” she said, her voice carrying to even the furthest onlooker. Energy thrummed throughout the crowd, and the fighters began to cheer and cry out in their exuberance. Truva held her hands up in acknowledgement, though she felt to be an imposter, out of place and false.

“Please,” she implored, and she sought familiar faces amongst the multitude as the uproar began to wane. Here and there Truva saw those she had fought against: those she had beaten and those she had lost to. She saw old fighters she had learned from and young fighters she had trained, fighters from her own village and those from neighboring ones; fighters who had still been active when she departed the Hidlands as well as fighters she knew must have retired, only to be forced to work as servants or farmers or blacksmith assistants or bartenders – whatever role it was that their owners required.

As she scanned the crowd, Truva’s eyes fell upon Aragorn’s stony countenance, as unreadable as it had ever been since their departure from Imladris. It unnerved her to see the Ranger so entirely disconnected from unfolding events, yet upon finding himself under her gaze, the shadow of a smile appeared at the corner of Aragorn’s lips. His first sign of warmth in days had a galvanizing effect within Truva’s heart, and she took a deep breath to begin in earnest.

“Long have we slaved under the thumb of those who care not whether we live or die, caught for centuries in a cycle of exploitation. The hope of obtaining our own freedom through sanctioned fights was a false one, a mere scrap thrown to us in the face of condemnable oppression.” With each phrase, a great wave of cheers rose up and it took several moments for the voices to recede before Truva could resume.

“No Man has the right to treat another as we have been treated,” she continued, stalking back and forth across the platform to release suppressed energy, for no longer did she feel the pangs of dread before her unfamiliar audience. “No Man can justifiably manipulate the life and wellbeing of another for his own profit. It is with this sentiment that I return to you today, and release you from your bonds that ought never to have been placed upon you.”

When Aragorn gazed upon the Eorlingas warrior that strode confidently above the massive crowd, he was strangely moved by the figure she cut before her audience. When first he met her, Truva had seemed but a mouse to him, withdrawn and timid; yet as time passed, he began to discern strength in her quietude, and to respect her as the reserved individual that she was.

The commanding presence he now witnessed, however, demanded a redoubled sense of admiration, and gave rise to the kind of loyalty and fealty kings or great military leaders might rightfully expect. Aragorn was startled to find himself viewing the unassuming Eorlingas in such a light, yet a glance to his left demonstrated he was not alone in this sentiment, for Halbarad too hung on her every word, as did the vast majority of her audience.

“Even so, I must admit,” Truva continued as the crowds grew hushed once more, “It is not with entirely altruistic intentions that I stand before you today. In our future loom forces far darker than any we have ever encountered in these lands.

“Unbeknownst to us, our people were blessedly spared many years ago from the destruction of a Witch-King and his followers by forces of Elves and Men, whose descendants stand among you this very day. The threat that descends upon us now, however, is an even greater evil; it will leave no crevice of Middle Earth unturned, and will surely find this place – perhaps not right away, but eventually even the Hidlands will fall.

“And thus, I offer you a choice.” Truva’s voice now rang with tearful entreaty. She endeavored to steady its shake, yet the memories of horrors in weeks past – of conflict and death and loss – overwhelmed her. She paused a few moments to calm her breathing as confused murmurs rippled across the crowd.

“I offer you a choice,” she repeated. “I believe the choice that lies before you to be thus: remain here and be overwhelmed by this new evil should it prevail against the forces we now send against it – or join us.”

“It would not be cowardly to stay, for each of us was raised dancing in the palm of violence; let none judge another’s desire to shed the mantle they have long borne until now. Some of you have families, as well, and there are young children to be cared for; I would not have us abandon them – if not to the misplaced mercy of slave owners or other malicious figures that still lurk, then to the torment of dehydration and starvation.

“There is yet further good that those who remain might see to. It is certain that we shall not succeed in freeing all our compatriots this very night, for the outer villages are too distant, and in many their slaves are more closely guarded. I ask that you release those who still remain in the clutches of servitude and begin anew a society, one based upon equality and prosperity for all.”

“You have your freedom!” Truva shouted over the renewed swell of voices. “Yet should you wish to join us, we will provide horses and supplies. It will be a long journey south, then east, before battle – come when and where it may – and you shall receive training along the way.

“I cannot promise victory,” she said, the sudden clarity in her tone implored those listening to take seriously the threat she warned of. Panicked chatter swept like wildfire among those gathered; even the slave masters, restrained as they were by the newly freed fighters, spoke frantically to each other. “I can only assure you that the stronger the front we present at the outset, the more likely we are to be victorious. Divided, we all shall surely fall.

“Whichever your choice may be, a fight is coming. To join with us now is to increase the force that rides out in opposition of the darkness that gathers even now in the east, carried by the conviction that all the good in the world – the good that you have not yet experienced with your newfound freedom – must never cease to exist.”

The morning sun had risen higher now, and its rays reflected off the water cisterns placed about the Coliseum for fighters to wash and refresh themselves with. One basin caught the light just so, and when Truva stood then at the forefront of the platform, it shone directly upon her. For a moment she stood still, bathed in its light, breathing in the thin mountain air and shivering in the morning chill. Goose-flesh prickled on the skin of her arms, yet Truva knew not whether it was due to the cold or the significance of the moment.

“Are you with me?” Truva cried out, raising her fist in defiance, and a deafening roar rose in response. She gazed out across the Coliseum and took in the myriad of faces that looked to her, shaking their fists or clapping or hollering, and as she descended from the platform she allowed hope to seep into her heart and mind.

And then the path before her rose dauntingly, wispy ghosts from the past fading into nothingness behind, and new demons solidifying out of dark smoke ahead. The entire journey northward had drawn her increasingly away from the danger she knew to be inescapable, yet now that future towered like an unsurpassable monolith, one that she would lead all who trusted her toward.

Truva’s newfound confidence waned, and she struggled to stave off the feeling that even now she was little more than a broken, emaciated fighter of the Hidlands, incapable of effecting any significant change. When she encountered Aragorn and Halbarad at the bottom of the platform, they could not help but notice her ashen countenance, and Halbarad gave her shoulder a brief pat as the Dunedain fell in step beside her, yet there were no words that could be said.

They wove through the crowds and came at last upon the entrance of the Coliseum, and it was there that Truva caught a glimpse of her previous owner, Dregant, leering from the sidelines amongst the other slave owners restrained by the fighters. She involuntarily clutched the arm nearest her, fingers wrapping tightly around Aragorn’s wrist, yet she quickly composed herself.

She halted the progression and approached the mass of slave owners, pausing a short distance away as she surveyed their expressions, which ranged from craven to defiant. She selected her words with great care before speaking.

“You have abused us,” she said. “You have exploited man, woman, and child, used us for your own personal gain, broken us physically and mentally, then discarded us when we no longer suited your purposes. For these wrongdoings, your forgiveness is dependent solely upon those you have wronged.

“I cannot promise forgiveness from those you have inflicted anguish upon, yet you might begin the journey of amending your transgressions, should you choose to join us. The threat we now face supersedes the existence of any single individual; all your misdeeds combined would not even begin to compare to the complete desolation that gathers now in the rising darkness. Let us come together in opposition of this strengthening evil.

“Let me be clear, however: should you violate our trust in any way, your existence shall be forfeit.”

Truva knew not what drove her to invite these tormentors among their ranks; for while it had been easy to sympathize with the Dunlendings, the wounds that these villagers had scored upon her flesh and that of her brethren ran deeper than her conscious mind could account for. Despite existing in a culture where such brutality normalized, how could they have looked upon the tortured faces of their living property and been unmoved?

Even still, the need for sheer numbers surpassed Truva’s own moral misgivings. If the battle at Hornburg was but a prelude to the clash that was yet to come, she shuddered at the thought that a more perilous threat lurked still.

The villagers, stripped of their ill-gotten livestock, now muttered amongst themselves. “Anywhere’s better’n this here wasteland,” said one, and several others voiced their agreement.

“You need not give me your decision now,” Truva rushed to add, “For it is not one to be made lightly. You have until our departure, which is nevertheless sure to come anon.”

She turned then from those who were the source of her frequent nightmares, and looked out from the lip of the Coliseum into the crowd, searching for familiar faces. She spotted Chaya, as well as Harrodoc – her thousandth opponent – and Blackbramble, his massive hulk easily distinguishable amidst the others. Truva motioned for them to join her.

“What is the longest we might reasonably delay our departure?” she asked of Aragorn as the three fighters arrived in breathless anticipation.

“It would be far preferable to leave this very day,” he replied, though he did not meet her eyes, for it was not an answer he wished to give. “There are already a great many Hidlanders gathered here – far more than I anticipated – and I suspect our greatest foe now is time.”

“We must grant at least a little time to those who have traveled to the far-flung reaches of the Valley,” urged Truva. “Even several days would not be sufficient for all who would come to arrive.”

“Indeed, it is a three day trek from my own village,” said Chaya.

“In our present circumstances, a day is surely all we can afford,” said Halbarad. “Let us withdraw from the Hidlands tomorrow at dawn.”

“One day is better than none,” said Truva resignedly, then addressed the fighters. “What are your intentions; do you wish to stay, or travel south?”

“I will go,” said Chaya. “I _must_ go.”

“As will I,” added Blackbramble.

“I believe it is my duty to remain behind,” said Harrodoc, and Truva wondered whether it was wise to hope he might be relied upon; yet though he had once been her nemesis, she believed his perpetual self-interest would in fact prove beneficial to securing the welfare of those who would continue to live in the Hidlands.

“Very well,” said Truva. “We must first see to the needs of the fighters, for they will require a great deal of food and medical attention. The influx of new arrivals means we must also find sufficient sleeping quarters.”

“I will go and handle such matters,” said Chaya. “I have grown familiar with this area and the fighters here, and together we will find what is needed.”

“Allow me to assist you,” said Blackbramble, and the two fighters went off in search of supplies.

“I believe it would be remiss of us if we did not offer the service of the Rangers,” said Halbarad. “Given your permission, we shall set up a watch, or any other service you might require.”

“Your offer is greatly appreciated, although perhaps you might also guide the Hidlanders who are to remain in such activities,” said Truva. “It will become their duty when we are gone.”

“Certainly,” he said. “It would be a pleasure.”

“Harrodoc, go with Halbarad and mount a patrol to guide the stragglers into the village, and to forestall any conflict that might arise between the fighters and their owners,” ordered Truva. “Organize groups you trust, if possible, and inform all that we leave tomorrow at first light.”

“There are also a few Dúnedain among our number whose culinary excellence would be best served in that area,” Halbarad added, and as he spoke, half a dozen of his men stepped forward to demonstrate their willingness to aid in that endeavor.

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Truva.

“It is naught but services we ought to have rendered long ago,” said Halbarad with a wan smile, and he turned then to lead Harrodoc and the remainder of his fighters away on patrol. Aragorn still lingered, however, and desperate to escape his impassive expression, Truva quickly guided the half dozen Rangers to the main market, where she found Chaya ransacking the stalls there.

“They fed us nothing save their scraps for years!” she said, anger cutting through her voice as she and a group of other fighters amassed an impressive collection of food, Blackbramble keeping at bay the villagers distraught at seeing their wares distributed equitably. “It is high time we ate like the Men we are!”

“There are those here who would help you to that end,” said Truva, indicating the Dúnedain, who introduced themselves briefly before bringing order to the chaos. They organized ingredients and set fires in the very street itself, directing fighters in the preparation of meals, and soon they were distributing food as rapidly as it could be cooked.

Truva herself refused multiple offerings, and instead wandered off in search of Harrodoc’s patrols, who had already encountered refugees from nearby villages. She directed the newcomers in the direction of the market before making a circuit of the village herself. Old rings, the Training Compound, cage upon cage – the sights caused painful memories to resurface, yet Truva’s heart gained solace from the knowledge that no fighter would ever be forced to suffer in the way she and the others had.

As the sun reached its climax and began to descend toward the western mountains, Truva returned to the entrance of the village, and in passing noted that food continued to be distributed in the market. Many of the fighters carried their supper to the Coliseum, where throngs of the newly emancipated had congregated. Fearful of being left alone, they preferred to gather with their own kind, for though their history was marked by combat, they felt far more secure in each other’s company.

Nor was their fear wholly unfounded, for the circulating rumor was that the free villagers had staked claim to a side street just beyond the market, and while Truva felt some responsibility toward all those whose lives were uprooted by the unprecedented change, she harbored absolutely no desire to ensure the needs of the free villagers were tended to. Even should they be planning mischief, she was confident in the fighters’ ability to thwart it.

And so the gathering settled in for the night, swathed in blankets and bellies full of the sustenance conjured by the Dúnedain. Finding Truva upon the platform overlooking the congregation, Halbarad mounted the steps and sat beside her, offering her a blanket Chaya had procured.

“You have done well today, leader of the Hidland army,” he said, his tone lighthearted yet his meaning sincere. “We shall set out with several hundred more than we Dúnedain had hoped for – enacting justice in the process.”

Truva turned her face to the wan light of the moon. “The events of today were insignificant in comparison to all that has occurred of late, and that which I fear is yet to transpire. And still, to each fighter we have given the world; we must do our utmost to ensure that their freedom is not squandered.”

Halbarad likewise turned to look skyward. “I believe you, of all people, understand how best to deliver unto the Hidlanders their deserved future, having made the same journey yourself.”

“Perhaps,” said Truva, though her thoughts were stretched in a thousand directions. She felt concern for those fighters who still remained trapped in the outskirts of the Valley, and for the ones making their way toward the Coliseum even now. She wondered at the emotions of the free villagers, and how they might behave come morning.

She thought also of her King, and how the muster of the Mark was progressing. She thought of Éomer and Éofa, Éowyn and Éomód, Héodis and little Fulmod, and what they might be doing at that very moment in time. And though she did not quite understand why, she also felt worry for Aragorn, whom she had not seen since morning, and whose exceptionally inexpressive demeanor recently caused her worry.

“We must see what tomorrow brings,” she said at last, and curled up beneath the blanket, though sleep would not come to her that night.


End file.
